Sure, it’s not Meredith Bay. It’s not Wolfeboro for damn sure. You won’t find many Ivy League nepo babies sipping rosé on vintage wooden boats out here. But what Paugus Bay lacks in old money, it makes up for in jetskis, pontoons, and absolutely zero regard for maritime safety.
Let’s be honest—who’s really having more fun? The guy polishing teak on daddy’s Chris-Craft, or a crew of sunburned heros making minimum payments on high-interest Sea-Doos, slamming back twisted teas.
Maybe you’re tied up with the kids in front of The Margate, grill smoking, drinks flowing, pretending your anchor is doing anything while a 35-foot cabin cruiser blasts by and turns your boat into a Red Solo Cup in a wave pool.
Welcome to Paugus Bay. It's chaotic. It’s loud. It’s beautiful.
