The Bar Harbor Yacht Club is a small, uninsulated cabin perched precariously on a rocky outcrop over a substantial dock. There is no sign marking the steep, unpaved drive. It is frequented by people in practical clothes and sensible shoes with weatherbeaten skin and permanent crinkles at the corners of their eyes from peering into the wind. Most of the members seem to be sailors, but there are a handful of motorboats moored there, too. I have trouble saying the name with a straight face. I've always thought it would be more accurately called the "Well-Hidden Place to Moor your Boat without Fuss." I'm not a member myself, but my father-in-law is, and we seem to congregate at the club for special family occasions. There's an almost-level crushed-stone terrace in front of the cabin with a cluster of adirondack chairs and a plastic table. It's a perfect place for a picnic in honor of Father's Day.