Claude Bergeron bit off the end of the cigar, rolled it in his forefingers, and smelled it.

He had been waiting for the moment. The cigar was the complement to what was turning out to be a perfect day. The downpour the night before, accompanied by some distant flashes and rumble of thunder, had cleared the air. A northeast wind followed in the path of the cold front, kicking up a bay chop and sweeping the sky clear of clouds.

We had arranged to meet Saturday morning at Warf Marina for what has become an annual ritual of towing two 19-foot sailboats from the upper bay to Pleasure Marina in Warwick Cove.

It’s about a six-mile trip one way, which, depending on conditions, can take a good part of a day and have you chilled to the bone, or leave dry with ample time for lots more. Saturday was going to be good, and for Claude, the cigar was going to make it even better.

He put the outboard in gear and backed away from the slip. His brother, Paul, was with us and reached over the starboard side to flip the rear fender into the boat. In addition to one of the sailboats we would tow, Claude owns a Trophy, which in his meticulous fashion he keeps ship shape. The fuel tank was full. He’d checked everything out. Claude doesn’t leave things to chance, which is a good thing as he also is a pilot and loves flying as much as he does sailing … maybe more.

Warwick Cove was amazingly full of boats, but not boaters. Perhaps it was too early at the start of the Columbus Day weekend. But then it also appeared few were anxious to close out the summer. Chairs were set up on the transom of cabin cruisers and sails furled, yet ready to be hoisted, on sailboats.

Claude eased the Trophy forward and, leaning into the wheel to keep the boat steady, lit the cigar.

“Have you noticed that no matter where you stand, the smoke finds a non-smoker?”

He was right. While we were parallel and the forward motion of the boat should have sent the smoke aft, it curled around and into my face.

I feigned a cough and then told him I like the smell of a cigar. I looked behind me. Paul had lit a cigarette. The smoke didn’t find me.

With the cove in our wake, Claude accelerated. Warwick Country Club was a rolling green carpet on our port. In the distance was the square superstructure of a car carrier at Quonset, and beyond that in the reflecting sunlight, a thin line on the horizon, the Jamestown Bridge.

Soon enough we passed Warwick Light and headed north into waves that were now subsiding in the waning wind. Somehow, days like this are more treasured in the fall than the spring. I wonder why.

Is it that we know they are numbered? That seems the plausible answer to be followed by the admonition, “you better enjoy it while you can, because, you know, winter is coming.”

Beautiful spring days, like the first blossoms, are full of promise. They bring renewal and hold expectation of fun times with family and friends. They are filled with life.

Bittersweet is how some might describe the perfect fall day, a welcome reprieve from the seasonal norm yet a reminder that winter is not so far away.

I think of them as gifts that round out one season while ushering in another. Hauling boats is one of those rituals of the season and having a near-summer day to do it couldn’t be better.

We took the sailboats from their moorings and put them in tow. The wind was on our backs, the sun warm, as Claude steered the Trophy and Paul and I took turns at the tiller seated in the aft boat. The bay had come to life.

There were a few sailors and a couple of powerboats bristling with fishing rods. Claude slowed on reentering Warwick Cove, our mission nearing completion. He towed us to the inner dock next to the travel lift where brothers Joe and Anthony DiCenzo would lift the boats and place them on trailers. Claude, Paul and I released stays and halyards and then lifted masts from the two vessels. We rolled sails and removed lifejackets. We tied up lines and prepared the craft for hibernation, the final step to come when they are wrapped in tarps made taut with bungee cords weaving under their hulls.

There was a time when I would have done everything to stretch the season. I have sailed in the snow and even worse in the rain with the temperature hovering around freezing. This year I wasn’t going to tempt another storm like the one that hit us last week. We lucked out when Joaquin veered out to sea.

There was no better way to end the season than near perfect conditions; for everything to work as planned and a whiff – just a whiff, and no more – of a good cigar.