As promised, here is a little trip report from our week in
Maine. You will not be overwhelming surprized at the simplicity of the
experience. I guess when it comes to vacations for us it is the quiet,
sleepy places we seem to be drawn to. OK, don't remind me of all those
raucous charters and road trips through Europe. We are older AND wiser
now. Well, at least for a while.
Earlier this year the question of our October week away came up. The
only problem was we had no direction.
Typically our fall trip is based on the location of the Virus Bulletin
Conference which has been known to alternate between Europe and North America.
But, lest we forget, IBM is no longer in the AntiVirus industry. At least
not directly but that's another story that you don't want to be bored by.
Anyway, after each conference Steve and I would select a location to visit
-- to stay in or travel through. Scotland was a favorite. Wales, another.
A fun week in London. A road trip down the California coast, tying up family
details and personal responsibilities. Walt Disney World. The Olympic rainforest.
Steve would drive, I would navigate.
But, as I have said, this year there would be no trip to VB (wouldn't
you know that this was the year they would choose Prague to meet in, too!)
I suggested a trip back to the rainforest. Unfortunately that would entail
a 6 hour flight and then 4 hour drive. Not much of a vacation. Then Steve
said, "Maine!"
Maine. Now, we had spoken about Maine for years. Yes, wouldn't it be
fun to drive to Maine for a long weekend. WHAT! 8 hours from Manhattan
does not make for a relaxing 72 hours. So, we tabled it. Until Steve brought
it back up......Yes, Maine. And October would be beautiful! The colors.
The lobster. The wonderful accents. The charming seaside villages with
clean white clapboard churches.
So, mission in hand, I started the search. Thankfully, a friend of ours
suggested the Boothbay Harbor area. While Maine isn't a huge state it helps
to have a direction in which to look. Boothbay Harbor sounded just fine.
A stroll through the Internet proved it so.
Requests were in to the tourist bureau for activity books and the hunt
for the perfect cottage began. I had my reputation to maintain.
Steve brags about my ability to find the ideal lodging for us and it
is beginning to frighten me. I am starting to shy away from booking new
and adventurous vacations lest I screw up the accommodations. My time is
certainly running out -- the odds are increasing........Cottage colony
in Bermuda for our belated honeymoon........A private island where we celebrated
our first anniversary (and several years later, Steve's 40th) with the
top of our cake feeding the restaurant's guests.......The little pink beach
cottage in the BVI..........The ocean cliff house in Kalaloch......Pick
one, any one of the sail boats we have chartered........There was that
pretty tacky place we stayed in Big Sur once but it did have an extraordinary
view!..........And the place in Culebra (go ahead, look it up!) that had
the most amazing collection of mosquitos -- all inside our room!
It was time to flick that little magic spinner once more.......and pray.
I wish it had been that easy.
Back to the Internet. Goggle searched "Boothbay Harbor" and "cottages"
and what came up was mind blowing. Pages and pages of results. I started
at the top.
From the luxurious to the pathetic. From the whimsical to the practical.
We could be in the woods or on the water. We could pay hundreds of dollars
a day or hundreds of dollars a week. I found Spruce Point Inn where the
Kennedys have stayed. Then I found Harborfield's.
It is a curious little web site that stated that they give price reductions
for families who homeschool so they might afford a family vacation. As
I scrolled down their accommodations pages, each cottage was cuter than
the next. Most had views of the water and directly across to the seaside
village. But the Wharf Cottage was on the water. Literally, ON the water
or nearly so at low tide. This is important to remember when the air temperature
reached 42 degrees.
Perfect! we declared. Ideal. I emailed my request and almost instantly
a reply came confirming it. They requested a 50% deposit and mentioned
I would get a discount for coming late in the season. It was only $550
for the week. Such a deal! And I was done.
OK. Now, fast forward your brain about 7 months. September 2001.
The month of Hell.
When then terrorist attack hit here in NYC I completely forgot about
Maine. I had just returned from spending a week in Seattle with my sister
moving my mother into an independent living facility. I was wanting (and
needing! a relaxing month before school started up and then going away
to Maine. But life was an uproar. Physical and emotional. From day to day
I wasn't sure where I would be. Here, in the city; upstate with friends
or someplace more distant. October arrived and before we knew it we were
packing for Maine. Thank GOD! Maine! I was there before I was really there.
My mind needed it so.
The drive to Maine would take 7 hours from the lab. This being a vacation
I couldn't expect Steve driving straight through so I suggested we start
out after lunch on Friday and see how far we got before nightfall. I knew
we could easily get into Massachusetts. Steve agreed and told me his last
appointment on Friday was at 1 and we could leave immediately after that
at 2. We loaded the car at 8am and left the city.
2pm became 3pm and that became 4 before Steve started to clean up his
work. I could envision the traffic building on the thruways. At 5 o'clock
we rolled out. And then stopped. And stopped. And stopped. Three hours
later we had traveled 60 miles. We pulled off the road and ended our drive
at a motel just outside Waterbury Connecticut. A very minimal motel. Now
I know what $50 pays for. Inside our room Steve watched CNN and I read
until I fell asleep.
Bright and early Saturday morning we got up and departed by 8. Both
of us remembered our parents who, while on vacation drives, always insisting
on driving several hours before breakfast. Suddenly all that made sense.
Except I could have really used a Starbucks. Just inside the Massachusetts
line we found a Wendy's. Ick.
The action against the Taliban in the Afghanistan hadn't yet begun though
Steve claimed it would almost hourly. It appeared that the USA forces had
arrived on the surrounding lands though no one held any real proof. I had
packed dozens of CDs to listen to in the car but all we wanted to hear
was NPR or any news station. Vacation had started?
But it had. The trees we drove through were startled with vibrant colors.
The air was brisk. Autumn was here. As we drove further north we saw quiet
ponds and V shaped trails of birds flying south. We didn't have the heater
on in the car but we were cozy. We did have the top down.
The route we took was provided by AAA's Trip Tik. We have never used
that service before and found it extremely easy to follow and it gave us
roads that were far away from the Boston area. Boston is still trying to
complete their intra city freeway. I have no idea how long this has been
in the works but I do know it really scrambles up traffic. Instead we drove
through Worchester Massachusetts. An old city of manufacturing. Many ancient
brick warehouses have been cleaned up and transformed into malls. Wonderful
old New England churches along side more modern buildings. This, though,
is not a glittery glass city.
Eventually we crossed another border. New Hampshire. I had never been
to New Hampshire and though we only drove a few miles through the state,
I added it to my list of states. Shortly we crossed into Maine. Another
addition to my list.
Gosh, I thought, we are nearly there! We couldn't be far. But I looked
at our road map and realized another hour could be expected. More glorious
trees and we skirted waters and saw little islands off shore.
There is a quote from an old commercial. I don't remember what it was
from (could it have been a fish cake TV ad?). "You can't get thaya from
heya." (That was a Maine accent!) Never understood what it really meant.
But suddenly I got it.
If you look at the coastline of Maine you can easily see that it is
made up of long fingers of land that poke out into the water. And if you
look even closer at a road map you can also see that there are NO bridges
connecting these tips of fingers. One might live a mile across the water
from the nearest neighbor but without a small boat you would have to drive
at least 40 miles to your friend for a visit. And not everyone on the coast
of Maine has a water access so I imagine that those neighbors don't visit
very often. They probably don't even know each other.
So, we drove and drove some more. Yes, it really IS 8 hours from New
York City. Finally we found the turn off to Boothbay Harbor. Another 30
minutes.
Many flags. Many little houses hidden down long little country roads.
Various indications that summer is a big business in Maine: Boat ramps
down to pieces of water, putt-putt golf courses all tidy-ed up for winter,
swimming pools covered with bright blue plastic canvases, picnic tables
alone in large parks. We were definitely into off-season here. We drove
through Boothbay.
Several, though, not many little white buildings. A few sandwich boards
outside establishments mentioning luncheon specials. Many flags. I later
found that I need to buy postage stamps for postcards and we couldn't find
the postoffice for all the American flags!
A few minutes later we came into Boothbay Harbor. The road split and
we road above the harbor and then shortly out of town. Following the directions
I had been sent, we finally found Harborfields, down a lane. Past a couple
of barns we parked in front of a big white house. The wild flower garden
stretched down towards the shore. I spied several little houses but I knew
that ours was out of view. I could see the sign that marked the Wharf Cottage.
The walkway disappeared behind some bushes. No one was around. We knocked
on the door. No answer. We sat down on the porch swing and waited.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a little white golf cart scurrying
around. It stopped in front of the Wharf Cottage sign and a small figure
vanished down the path. Shortly she reemerged. I called down and shortly
she greeted us on the porch. We did our paperwork in the house and then
we went to the car and drove down the hill.
The cottage was down a small slate embedded path towards the water.
Two more steps. We passed by a firewood bin on the left. The door was unlatched
and we entered.
In front of us was a bungalow, not much larger than our NYC apartment.
To our immediate left were two fold down bunks. Ahead was the double bed
and the spic-and-span fireplace with a small iron stove that could hold
two 2-foot logs. On our right was little table and chairs and a view across
to the clean, neat village. Before us were the dressers. The little kitchen
extended straight ahead. Bathroom was out to it's left. If you have seen
the pictures all this makes sense.
Instantly I was transformed to a place in La Jolla in the late 70s.
I had had a small studio apartment in the Southern Californian village
that was my haven against the rest of the world. I would escape there after
work to make chili and stroke my kitty, Bethany. I devoured Jane Austin
books in bed with huge cups of rich deep coffee, beneath feather comforters
(there was no heat in the winter). On weekends my niece Katie would visit
me and sleep on home made cushions on the floor and we would wander through
the quiet streets.
I felt back home and so sedated.
Barbara left us there to settle in and unpack. She had suggested a lobster
place in the neighborhood where boats brought up bushels of those hard
red delights.
I unpacked and then we drove out for lobster.
Robinson's was closed. Had been so since Labor Day. Steve and I would
find that a number of places closed in early September and then most would
close the weekend we were in town. I had expected that would be true. We
turned around and finally found a dive just outside town.
I mean DIVE. I won't even tell you about it except Steve couldn't order
clam chowder unless it was accompanied by a sandwich. He ordered fish soup
and it ended up being fish in a thin, milky broth. It was just that bad.
But it gave us a chance to make a shopping list.
You all know how neurotic I am about provisions. In planning for Cooper
I count every onion that we might need. But there we sat in a huge but
empty room that echoed a college football game on the TV and discussed
meals. Food in the cottage would be good but modest. We didn't feel like
eating. We just felt like hiding.
The market was the only one in town. It was not unlike the place we
shop in Roadtown. Hamburger, game hens, steaks and lamb chops. All the
accouterment and we were done. $200 done. Steve had discovered their wine
stock. Good but not great. Tough for the California kid who was used to
fabulous wines and reasonable prices. Here it was just mediocre.
Back at the cottage I unpacked the parcels as Steve brought them in
to me. At 4:00 we just wanted to bed down. Off came the clothes and on
came the cozy things we had brought. I started the dinner. I grilled outside
in 50 degree temps. brrrrrrrr......
The radio was on. No news yet. Just more words of sadness from New York
and DC. More grief.
As the sun set behind us we lit newly bought candles and stoked the
fire. We hadn't heard the crackling of burning fire wood in ages and it
was one more reason to remain indoors. The village before us disappeared
into the night's darkness.
Like Cooper Island, priorities change. Since the only serious mode of
heat that we had was the small wood stove, we maintained a watch over the
burning logs. Once one log was able to be crunched down to hot coals another
new one was added. Steve read and I did a newly found jigsaw puzzle at
the table. We continued our radio monitoring. About 11pm I added one more
log and then closed the stove door and crawled into bed.
Early Sunday morning I awoke and relit the fire. It had gone out in
the dark morning hours. My coffee was made and I went back to bed, tucking
the covers around a still snoozing Steve. I heard a squirrel skitter-run
across the roof and smiled. I could imagine Christopher tormenting and
being tormented by these fuzzy creatures.
When we got going in the morning we decided to go into town and wander
the village streets and we dedicated our hours to finding lobster. As Steve
was finishing his shower and I sat putting on my makeup the first word
of possible bombing in Afghanistan was on the radio. No official word,
just reports of bright and vivid explosions on the distance land. It wasn't
until we were in a gift shop later that it was confirmed.
I am sure that there is some law in Boothbay Harbor banning the commercial
stores we are so used to in our cities and suburban malls. There is no
GAP or Barnes and Noble or Starbucks or Nordstroms or any chain drug stores.
All those are someplace else. Instead, there are small antique shops, gift
stores, taffy and ice cream parlors, and dress shops. There are also the
prerequisite tourist hangouts. On the piers are boat tours and lobster
and fish restaurants. No one moved in and rebuilt anything in a more modern
design thus ruining the charming locales. Shop doors still stick and wood
floors still squeak. Windows don't keep a lot of the cold air out. This
is a real town.
In our stroll we found an art store whose owner was listening to good
jazz when we walked in and as we looked around I kept noticing his fingers
tapping in rhythm to the music. I made some remark about him being a serious
jazz aficionado. He chuckled and told me stories of knowing the old clubs
of Greenwich Village and how he photographed the jazz stars we have only
heard on the radio or have seen pictures of. He knew them. They invited
him into their sessions to take fine black and white photographs of them
as they played. One small room in this little store display his very fine
images.
The rest of the store showed his pictures of Boothbay Harbor and other
local photographers pictures. I went through the stacks of his photos looking
for that perfect shot of the dear lobster boats that I had watched harvesting
their catch each morning as I held a hot cup of coffee, standing at the
window.
I found one. It was a black and white picture with a partial image of
a boat tied up to a buoy. This was the one. I didn't know where it would
hang but I knew it would hang. After more conversation we left with our
treasure to discover more of Boothbay Harbor.
I wanted to get a sweatshirt. I knew I would need one! Down a steep
side road to the docks stood in a small booth and an old man selling tickets
for sailing on a classic schooner. Steve and I decided we wanted to sail
out of the harbor for a tour but not just that day and not necessarily
on that boat. I did get a terrifically fluffy navy blue sweatshirt with
the printed art of the boat under full sail at night on the front.
As we walked along the pedestrian street, I stopped at another booth
to look at the navigational chart they displayed. It was then we heard
the official word from the Middle East. The bombing HAD begun. The man
in the booth said, " Well, we're bombing Pakistan!" I blinked and said
under my breath but so the people around me could hear, "I hope it's NOT
Pakistan." A man who had heard me repeated my words and added it was probably
Afghanistan. The fellow behind the glass said, "Whatever...." I was astonished
that anyone would not know the difference.
One more store and then we would go off for lobster.
I had seen a gift shop when we parked the car. It had hundreds of suncatchers
in the windows and I knew I had found the perfect place for stocking stuffers
and package ornaments for Christmas. We went inside to choose them. I had
an immediate repartee with the owner and she helped me select 4 or 5 3-inch
stained glassed designed lighthouses. The cutest sun catchers by far were
the 1-1/2 inch glass lobster buoy sun catchers. I got 7 or 8 of them. I
thought they would make dear holiday tree ornaments. As I was selecting
the glass the woman helping me mentioned the bombing that had just begun.
I told her that I had seen too much dying in the recent weeks to be joyous.
She told me to avoid the local bars. She predicted celebrations that evening.
Outside the shop we hopped into the car and drove off in search of those
succulent critters!
I had the name of one good spot. But there were soooooo many in the
tourist book! The Lobstermen's Coop sounded promising.
Important tip! The best lobster spots are not places you would take
your in-laws for a first meeting. There is no waitstaff, no linen napkins
or table clothes. Plastic utensils! Paper plates!! You sit at either indoor
picnic tables or ones that are outside. Order your food at big tanks of
water on the dock. Nope! No place for the uninitiated. But when I saw the
location I knew we were in for a treat!
We parked in the warehouse lot and went over to the eatery. Formalities
existed.
First, you approach the dock where there are four big water tubs of
dark brown-black lobsters. Each bin is marked by a badly handlettered cardboard
sign. "Chix" " 1 1/2 lbs" "2 lbs" and "larger". That is just the lobster.
Over to the left aide is a counter where you pick up your cooked bright
red shellfish. Further to the left are windows where you can order prepared
food. Ah, but we're not talking Micky D's here.
Clams, clam strips, fried clams, clam chowder, oysters, fried oysters,
oyster chowder, fish sandwiches. Potato salad, cole slaw, fries. There
was probably dessert but I spied my favorite -- LOBSTER ROLLS!
Ah, lobster rolls. I love boiled lobster. But several years ago I decided
to try the famous Lobster Roll. I thought I had died and gone to lobster
heaven.
A lobster roll for the neophyte is made of 1-inch chunks of sweet lobster
meat mixed with very little mayo and seasonings. VERY little. Not even
enough to hold the pieces together. They just lay there on a hotdog-like
roll ready to be shoved into your mouth. Yes, That's what I was having!
Steve ordered his Chix (a 1 pounder). The girl behind the tubs pulled
out a plastic string bag and carefully put her arm into the cold tub of
water and pulled out a struggling animal. Into the bag she added an ear
of corn and then tightened the noose and dumped the package into one of
the boiling hot water sinks. My roll was delivered to the window and we
both waited for his meal to be plated. I decided to go inside the waterside
barn and ordered cokes for us and found a space in the sun at one to the
picnic tables. It was too cold outside to eat.
Finally Steve joined me and we crossed into culinary paradise.........
Ok, I have gone on TOO long about our first Maine lobsters. Well, just
now, anyway. But they were just a bit of delicious.
After lunch (yes, there was an end!) we got back into the car and put
the leather top down. I have a handpainted peach silk scarf my sister gave
me that I wear. I look soooooo Katherine Hepburn with my movie-star sunglasses
on. Steve put his foot down on the peddle and we were OFFFFFFF!
We continued further down the waterside road past other, larger inns
and more ordinary motels. Through groves of coloring trees. Small summer
homes and the more substantial year 'round houses. I wondered what it must
be like to live here for 12 months at a time. The blanketing snow in the
winter and covered ice slicked roads, the pink-becoming-green leafed trees
in the spring and the hordes of guests and inconveniences of the traffic
of people and cars in the summer. Fall to me was the best! There was a
freshness in the air and a bit of intimacy here as well. I sensed the locals
felt similarly.
Towards the end of the road we came upon a gate and a sign marked "Spruce
Point Inn." Not unfamiliar to me. I had seen it online during my search
for our perfect respite. We drove through the unmanned gate and into manicured
but still slightly wild landscape. This was no Hilton or Marriott property
but obviously an organized and well cared for community. It was just a
little bit too perfect for us. This was actually the place where I had
read the Kennedys had vacationed. I could see that being true.
Spruce Point Inn is not unlike the northern version of Little Dix Bay
(formerly owned by the Rockefeller family) in the British Virgin Islands.
A fresh water swimming pool by the main white house, a pristine manmade
beach with a side pool and hot tub. Small, yet cozy houses, clear green
lawns. It was obviously a favorite wedding and honeymoon location. I saw
green and white striped awnings still up for that last of the season's
functions. Lovely but not our style of the more rustic environs.
At the end of the road I told Steve about finding this resort on the
web and considering it..........for about 30 seconds. He threw his head
back in laughter and we turned the car around and retreated.
It was about 3pm and we had a stove to stoke for the evening. Steve
had a computer to game to play and I wanted to finish that silly jigsaw
puzzle. There was something about black leggings and a new sweatshirt for
me and a yukata and obi for Steve. I wasn't sure we would be hungry for
dinner. Our tummies were still enjoying our lunch. Perhaps we would just
munch. Not unusual for us.
Back at our nest. The sun was still reasonably high in the sky. Daylight
savings time had not yet left us and I was pleased to still see a clear
vision of the village in front of me. The water was settled. Nearly creating
a mirror into which to gaze. Gradually lights came on in the large white
house across from us. The boatyard down to our disappearing right was receiving
the last of the summer sailboats to be hauled for the winter. I thought
about dinner but Steve was already engrossed in his game and I wasn't about
to create work for myself. The light dimmed around us. Clouds rolled quietly
in.
About 8pm Steve was at the table listening to the radio. There was much
news being reported. At the end of the first day the US strikes had been
successful. What did that mean. I didn't want to acknowledge the images
I had in my mind. The words on the pages I played with meant little. I
felt I needed something to crunch.
In the fridge I found lettuce and onions and I made a huge salad for
myself in a large white plastic bowl. Steve said he wanted nothing, He
would nibble the various snacks we had bought. I built a big great heap
of greens for myself that I dressed and sat on the bed and shoved them
into my mouth. Perfect. Just what I wanted.
In a little while I went outside to have a cigarette. It was getting
really cold. I thought about that little electric heater on the wall. We
had used it the previous night and I hadn't really felt much of it's effect
after we turned it off when we shut the light off. I wondered how we would
keep the stove fire hot all night. I could see little icicles growing off
Steve beard by morning.
Inside I put two more logs on the fire. I poked them in and encouraged
them to burn. Later I added another couple. The cottage was warm.
By 10pm when we turned off the light I had added all the blankets (5)
that I had found in a cupboard. I figure those would keep us cozy. I retained
my leggings and my long Seattle latte T-shirt. Oh! and socks too. It was
COLD!
It had rained that night. I thought perhaps it had snowed as well. I
awoke shivering and went into the bathroom. I cannot tell you how painful
THAT was. COLD! I turned the heater on the wall to high but it produced
little warmth.
I went outside for more wood and brought in what I could carry. I found
a few hot coals in the stove from the night before and added more wood
and kindling and a few pine cones. The little stuff lit but the wood refused
to ignite. I then realized that it HAD rained the night before and, while
the rain had missed the wood directly, it was all damp. I stacked that
wood I brought in around the cold stove and searched for any dry logs that
were left from yesterday. There were none I could find. I kept adding pine
cones.
Finally something started to smoke. But that was all I got. Smoke. In
frustration I made coffee. I heated the milk so the cup would stay hot
as long as possible.
More smoke and no fire. Still cold.
I think I finally found a dry log. I laid wet wood on top of the stove
to dry from the heat. The oven began it look like an altar to the stove
god. He/she wasn't listening.
Steve still snoozed. I tucked the covers around his neck. He slept until
about 11.
When he awoke, it was warmer but not by much. While he was still snuggled
down, I told him I was going to the laundry room to see if I could find
a Scrabble game and bring back some dry wood. I took the canvas wood sling
and headed off.
The laundry room was behind the great white house. Inside were piles
of towels and sheets, stacked on tall wire shelves. Next to them were towers
and towers of games and puzzles. I found no Scrabble but I chose several
500 piece puzzles.
I had learned to love jigsaw puzzles in Taiwan when I was 10. There
was no TV and on a lonely Saturday night I would spend hours placing each
cut piece into the next to create fall scenes and seascapes. I think Mother
had gone to a yard sale prior to someone's return to the states. She had
bought 5 or 6 and brought them back to me. I guess she had realized a hidden
talent of mine early. I had terrific spatial skills. Perhaps that was why
I won the Singer Sewing Contest in 1969. I still get mesmerized by these
silly pastime puzzles.
On my way back from the shack I gathered wood from deep in the great
log pile near the boat house. I had to test each for dampness and then
make sure they would fit into the stove. Many were too long. I brought
some of those anyway.
Upon returning, Steve was on the bed playing his computer game and listening
to the radio.
The radio! What an experience.
I never listen to the radio. Most days when I am cleaning or ironing
or cooking I have CNN on the TVs throughout the apartment. We have three.
We have that many rooms as well. But in Maine all we had was the radio
I had brought. It hadn't really occurred to Steve to bring it along but
I thought having music would be smart. I had never thought we would hear
only one of the 24 CDs we had with us.
We scanned the waves and found the local CBS News station and an NPR
broadcast station as well. I was amazed at the breathed of talk.
CBS brought us the immediate news. They had their correspondents in
Afghanistan and throughout the rest of the world. They had all the interviews
and the press conferences live. And CBS had the very weird call-in shows.
I was stunned at how short sighted some callers and respondents could be.
All about bombing but nothing about what might have to come after we had
wiped out their landscapes. Early in the morning Dr. Laura blew my mind.
Her limited view of the world overwhelmed me and her conservative talk
shock me with fear. At night there was a woman who advised of relationships
and seemed so far into the 1950s that I could barely understand her concepts.
OUCH!
NPR gave us wonderful conversations with thoughtful writers and poets
and an occasional Afghani report. We were comforted by the stories and
interviews. We found their humor like ours. Their listeners brought smiles
to our faces and we glanced at each other and notes were taken for Steve's
web log. But there was little concrete news.
All day long we sat in our own places. Playing, puzzling, listening,
and commenting. I made PB & J sandwiches for lunch and pulled out the
chips and cookies as treats. Just like the BVI! Just a whole lot colder!
A world, a whole lot different.
Tuesday morning I awoke. Early as usual. I hadn't slept well that night.
It was still cold but I was able to find hot coals and lit a fire with
the wood that had finally dried. Coffee was made. Hot milk, too. I stood
at the window and looked out east across the glassine water. In the distance
were, once again, many little lobster boats making their rounds but a small
boat approached us. Into our cove. How much this was like Cooper.
The bay and harbor and outer waters are heavily sprinkled with brightly
colored buoys. In strings. Sometimes strings of just two buoys and, at
other places, strings of 5. Each lobsterman has his own chosen color combination
to distinguish his from someone else's. The variations are numerous. Almost
infinite. Any two colors in any order and multitudes of designs painted
on them.
Attached to each buoy is a line that is connected to a big, trunk-sized
wired cage dropped deep into the water. These cages rest on the bottom
of the of the bay. They are segmented into smaller chambers and some are
baited and others are not. The ends of the cages are designed for the lobsters
to be able to enter but not exit. Very sneaky!
But the lobsters have escapes! LEGAL! Even lobsters - go figure! Each
must be of a certain size to be harvested. Approximately 3 x 5 inches.
And all pregnant females are safe from the hands of lobstermen. All the
harvesters must be licensed and are limited to having a total of about
1200 traps. That's a lot! A full time job, from what I could tell. But
these guys are as efficient as the devil.
That morning I was watching a particular boat. I had chosen the blue
and green buoys as my favorites. There a string of them right in front
of me. Suddenly I realized I was seeing their owner.
The boat putt, putt, putted and the glass like water was shattered by
its wake. From point to point to point the boat drifted purposefully. I
watched as a man in the large stern grabbed a buoy and hauled aboard and
hooked it to a pulley. He then waited as the person who was guiding the
boat pulled up the line to the next buoy and a trap appeared and was yanked
aboard. Quickly the worker emptied its contents into disappearing bins
and, as quickly, threw the empty cage on to the stern rail. He repeated
this activity again and, as rapidly as he had before, performed the same
movements, often tossing smaller dark bodies back into the water. These
were too small to be caught. It takes about 7 years for a lobster to become
a legal size.
I stood there at the window fascinated. I wished Steve would wake up
so he could marvel at what I was seeing. Finally I could stand it no longer.
"Steve.........Steve," I whispered anxiously. No movement.
"Steve! Steve!!" I insisted. His eyes opened. Well, that might be an
exaggeration.
"What," he didn't sound like he really wanted to know.
"Come here. You have to watch this!" I urged.
Patient husband that he is, he got out of bed and struggled over to
the window. I explained to him what we were seeing. The precision of the
activity. He grunted and went back to bed. I don't think he was very impressed.
I simply couldn't understand how a warm bed and sleep could be more fascinating
than what I was witnessing. We are soooo different.
The boatmen completed the string of traps in front of the cottage and
quickly reverse their direction and, as they moved on, each trap popped
off the stern with its matching buoy and back into the water in nearly
the exact position they had left. I figured these guys did this pretty
often. They went down the shore to the next group of markers.
The entire morning I observed the various small boats hauling their
gold. I wondered which lobster I would have for lunch next.
As the day continued I oversaw the delivery of more sailboats to the
yard beyond the bend of trees. Rick, one of the managers of Harborfields,
and his daughter loosen their rowboats and brought them around. His beautiful
hand rubbed sloop disappeared as well.
I noticed the big white house across from us showed less and less activity.
I realized that along with the storing of boats the summer houses were
being closed up too. I found it amazing that a building as big as this
could possibly be just be a seasonal home. I wondered out loud who might
own it.
OK, we had been indoors a bit too long for me. Steve was happy enough
to hang out and listen to the radio and play his computer game but I needed
more than a jigsaw puzzle. The weather was turning warmer and it was getting
too temperate for a fire. I was beginning to go a little cottage crazy.
I needed an adventure.
I spent a good amount of time with the tourist guide and found something
not too far out of Boothbay that might be fun. I wanted a change of art.
The Farnsworth Museum in Rockland, Maine is known to have one of the
finest regional art collections in the country housed in a modern wood
and glass building and was just an hour's drive north on Rt. 1. That trip
would provide us some more lunchtime entertainment and some culture as
well. Such a deal!
As we wound our way out of Boothbay Harbor towards Rt 1 Steve needed
gas. We found a station just to the side and stop and a fellow came up
to help us. With our top down he smiled broadly and remarked that he was
looking towards another weekend on his "cycle" and that last bit of summer
air. Steve and I nodded in agreement of his anticipation, paid our bill
and continued on. A brotherhood of a type was made there. Unspoken it was
instilled.
White painted villages, marshes of grasses and fields of slightly coloring
trees continued to be our scene until we entered Thomaston, Maine and figured
it was time for lunch as we drove by "Dave's". The sign told us THIS was
the place for lobster and slices of juicy pies and even gifts. So we turned
around and headed back a few yards and parked in the crowded lot.
As Steve and I ambled towards the front door of the joint we were slowed
by a number of elderly individuals. We had discovered Maine's "early bird
special" hour. This was the time that the older citizens of the community
congregated for their social.
Inside we were greeted by a flock of patient people, waiting for tables,
and fudge and stuffed animals and postcards. Everyone greeted everyone
else and were seated in time at their tables for their delights. We, strangers,
were shown to our side table and given monstrous menus. I spied the lobster
and closed my book. Steve, I was agassed, looked further and chose fish
and chips. Couldn't go wrong there!
The menu urged us to pursue a small brochure on the table explaining
the background of this institution. It had been started many years ago
by a young man selling fresh fish door to door and finally had bought a
small building from which to run his business. Dave Moody traveled the
world and married and brought his new wife home to Thomaston. They continued
to increase the size his business until it developed until a facility that
now includes an outlying entertainment park and movie theater complex and
the restaurant became the culinary discovery it is today.
The lobster was sweet and messy. Juices and butter ran down my forearms
and I swiped them up with the many napkins they provided. Chips weren't
as crisp as I would have liked, "just BURN them!" was my request, but the
cole slaw made up for them. PIE? Were you kidding?? There was no room was
left.
We rolled out but not before I made a new friend and soon adopted another
teddy bear for my collection at home. A cute squeezy bear that needed a
mother and there I was! Ready to adopt, so I did. We traveled on to Rockland.
The Farnsworth was established to focus on American Art primarily from
Maine. What brought us to Rockland was their renown collection of Wyeth
art. J.C., Andrew, and Jamie.
Those of us old enough to remember the work of J.C. can recall his amazingly
demonstrative drawings of swashbuckling pirates and seaside adventures.
Andrew's art is much more land oriented and features evocative canvases
of the relationships in his life and local experiences. Jamie, here, has
continued his family's art with more local paintings.
I am hard pressed to choose my favorite but I was really moved by Jamie's
more recent work and Andrew's portraits of the mysterious lady. She, since,
has been exposed and with that exposure came quite a ruckus. All these
works are sectioned off into individual galleries.
We also viewed an exhibition of paintings by John W. McCoy, a Pennsylvanian
artist who was a great friend of Andrew's. His botanicals and landscapes
were eerie images of the beautiful Brandywine Valley and the Maine coastline.
Some of the most wonderful local landscapes.
Another gallery held a collection of Brett Bigbee's art, a modern American
portraitist who has been compared to the Flemish artists on the 18th Century.
Several were hard to distinguish from photographs. We paced from frame
to frame and back again to compare their similarities and his microscopic
technique.
Needless to say we had a terrific day trip and we wound our way back
to Boothbay Harbor.
On our last full day in Boothbay Harbor we decided to take a sail. The
weather was once again warm and mild. Clear and bright. The water was crystal.
The air was light.
Most of the boats for hire in the harbor had retired to the various
yards for the season. One remained and this was their last day for a sail.
The schooner Eastwind had recently returned with her owners from her
sail around the Cape of Good Hope. She carries almost 1500 sq.ft. of sail
and is 65 ft. in overall length. She had been built locally by a family
who had made a life of building schooners. Doris and Herb Smith were married
on their first handmade boat and now have two teenage daughters who would
rather spend their summers ashore than on the water with Eastwind and their
parents, exploring new lands.
Once the boat was full that day with their 20 odd guests, Doris loosed
the lines and the motor gently pulled us away from the dock. Doris went
below and tossed out of the hatch a huge number of well worn winter jackets
for those of us not prepared for the wind blowing outside the harbor.
While Herb guided the boat through the heavily buoy marked waters, Doris
hauled the halyards, lifting the great white sheets into the air. I was
so impressed with her knowledge of the setting of the sails but afterall,
she had done it for quite awhile. It reminded Steve and me of our friends,
Nina and Jerry, who sailed their own 47" schooner down the East coast through
the Caribbean and transited the Panama Canal to cross the Pacific Ocean
to Australia. They, since, have sold Arctracer and bought a more roomy
and easier sailed catamaran. I have vivid memories of hanging my legs over
the rails of Arctracer and twinkling the water with my toes while we were
underway off the North coast of St Martin several years ago. Remember those
ice blue hard candies of our childhood that tasted of winter? That was
the color of the water that day - ice blue.
Outside the harbor, Herb turned off the small engine and the air caught
the giant canvases. He gave us a short overview of where we were expecting
to head. We all could see the bank of fog approaching from the South east
so he told stories of getting lost in the fog and Steve and I whispered
about a particular scene in the movie "Mr. Hobbs Takes a Vacation," one
of our favorite Jimmy Stewart movies.
Off to the starboard we slid past light-housed islands and a piece of
land that held a dozen vacation homes, all without cars or creature comforts.
Occasionally Herb would call for a tack and we would dip our heads as the
heavy booms crossed above us changing our direction. Doris remained forward
by us. I asked her what they would do in the off season this year. She
said they would be building a new house. Gotta love these Downeasters.
Out into the deeper water the air really hit the sails and Herb let
them out. She cut a pretty path. We continued to see lobster buoys but
less frequently. Still we observed the boats that tended then. I wanted
to stop and speak with the workers.
Ahead of us was Seal Rocks. Herb told us about this hard working lighthouse
on a small crust of land that was decommission and then REcommissioned
on the cries of the local lobster and fishermen. As we approached closer
and closer I saw the perfected designed. It was everything that a Maine
lighthouse should be. Bright, white and sturdy to the elements. Standing
forth through the wisps of fog that drifted around it. I wanted to get
closer but we couldn't. I wanted to walk on the land but I couldn't. I
pointed my camera but without a zoom lens they were just limited shots.
The fog continued toward us.
Rounding the back of the island we found ourselves delving into a bank
of what is known pea soup. Pea soup became fog and Doris pulled out her
air horn. Our eyes scattered along the surface. We moved slowly and carefully.
Conversation stopped. Herb was looking. Looking all around for small vessels
in our way. Out of the cotton-like air appeared those sweet lobster boats
still harvesting their jewels. Nothing stopped them, or the Schooner Eastwind.
Land started to emerge. On those new rocks were lumps of what appeared
to be seaweed. Herb convinced us they were seals. Without that direction
my common sense would have never accepted that image. I could barely make
out noses and fins. They ignored us and sprawled out on the wet stone.
We motored away.
Slowly we motored back towards the harbor and out of the fog bank. Gradually
the dimensions of the land began to take shape. First a dock or spit of
land could be seen and then a tree and roll of grass, approaching up a
hillside and finally a house was visible. Finally everything was as it
was before.
At 3pm we docked back at the village and as we departed the Eastwind
each of us shook Herb and Doris' hands. We wandered up the pier and then,
further up the ramp.
Steve and I heard the call of red shellfish and went off in search of
the last lobster of the year.
OK, so I will subject you all to ONE more lobster experience! I can't
believe I am asking you to do this again but I can't say I am sorry because
by sharing it with you, I am reliving every luscious moment. No drizzling
butter this time for me but there was another wonderful experience. The
lobster, yes. But the local company, ABSOLUTELY!
When we left the pier, we headed off to our car and I pulled out our
tourist guide. I knew and feared there would already be lobster places
closed for the year and I had a list to deal from. The Coop was shut tight
but there was this charming little roadside shop that still had it's sandwich
board out by the street side so we pulled in and stopped. The Daley Catch.
Inside was a long counter, as long as the eatery itself, with fresh
fish and shelled critters displayed below the clear glass. I asked the
woman there if I could use their bathroom and she lead me back through
their work room. I was immediately surrounded by lobsters and shipping
boxes. Her partner was in the midst of packing these red guys up for mailing
to distant dining tables. Gave me some ideas......yep, it did.
Steve ordered his Chix and I had another lobster roll. It was really
good, packed full. There were these amazing chunks of rich meat that were
barely held together by the seasoned mayo and in a soft tasty roll.
Luanne and I had the best conversation that was begun over a small trophy
displayed on the counter for "The Best Tall Tale Told By A Lady." Ok, so
I had to ask. I was just too noisy.
It seems there is an event in Boothbay Harbor in late April called the
Fishermen's Festival. It begins on Friday night with a huge fish fry dinner
in the local hall for all the citizens (and visitors, if they venture there
that early in the year). The following morning begins with all the harbor's
little lobster boats forming a great long line. They slowly approach the
dock where the local priest blesses each of one of them for the next season's
good harvest.
So much for the serious part of the weekend. Now comes the silliness.
And it is very silly! And quite wonderful. It's Boothbay Harbor.
There is a Cod Fish Relay where fishermen, in all their rubber garb,
pass squishy, wriggling fish from man to man in a timed competition. The
Lobster Crate Race where a rope is attached to lobster cages and strung
from one spot to another across the COLD water and the lobstermen are required
to walk across this manmade path in an attempt to make it to the end. I
suspect few escape the event without becoming completely soaked in the
cold salt seawater.
People continue to participate on very silly contests. The one contest
that I was most amused by was the Tall Tale Contest. And hence our conversation......
Luanne, when asked, enthusiastically told me her story while her partner,
Randy, smiled broadly and worked around her.
She loves entertaining (and is so good at it -- too bad there isn't
more room in their store for a floor show with lights and music!) and telling
stories and her family insisted she was the best at it. That she should
actually enter one of her tales into the competition. So she did enter
and then wondered about what she would produce.
She scrunched up her face tightly with her hands and preceded to repeat
her award winning story. Something about a little boy named Chubby...........
Just the look of this lovely, pretty young face all mussed up and speaking
so goofily just dissolved me into tears. As she progressed, we laughed
harder and harder. All I can remember there was something about this kid
talking with his chubby father and chubby mother........I remember little
else. Except for my body throbbing from hysterics.
At the end of the tale telling our meals were presented and we devoured
them like hungry sailors. A couple of well dressed folks (who reminded
me of Steve's well dressed brother and sister-in-law) entered as we stuffed
our mouths full and decided that, yes, they should be here as well. And
try the lobster, too.
On our last night we found we couldn't eat. Besides being stuffed with
lobster, I became fidgety with all the things that needed doing for us
to be gone by 10am the next morning. We had had so much fun in our little
bungalow that all I wanted to do was veg out. But there were those little
angels in the back of my mind making me think of the tasks ahead. Like
on Cooper, I began to gather our belongings into their own spaces in our
suitcase and bags. Dinner was a non issue.
I awoke early once again. But I do that daily. Yet I couldn't bring
myself to sit at the table with a hot cup of coffee and watch the bay and
harbor beyond. My mind was whizzing with tasks. We had to be out by 10am.
I quietly went thru the fridge and tossed out the extra veggies and
milk. I packed up cookies and chips and made sandwiches of the leftover
game hen and leftover steak. Steve roused himself and made his way past
me to the bathroom for an early shower. I smoothed back the bed covers
and folded up the extra blankets and put them away. Laid out the suitcase
and filled it clothes. I found we didn't have enough space in it (I had
bought that fluffy sweatshirt) and just started putting things into a grocery
bag. Steve finished the last of the cereal and OJ. More news on the radio.
At 10am we were still cleaning the cottage, dumping trash and beginning
to pack the small trunk of our car. No matter how we tried to fit the various
pieces in, this jigsaw puzzle wouldn't work out. We finally realized that
it all wouldn't go in so we gave into the space considerations and put
things on the shelf behind our seats. That would mean we wouldn't be able
to have the top down for the trip. I was bummed. But I would have been
bummed away. I didn't want to go home.
Steve didn't want to go either. He was still concerned about further
terrorist attacks in the City. He had heard something about the oil refineries
in New Jersey as the next terrorist targets. He just didn't want us to
be around if that happened.
[The following week Steve asked me to accompany him to work each day.
We packed an "escape bag" of just the bare necessities, including some
water and energy bars, and carried it with us everywhere we went. I wasn't
convinced that NYC would be targeted again. He insisted that he would be
more comfortable if I was with him so I, of course, gave into him. I think
he felt a lot of guilt leaving me in the City on 9/11 when I told him that
we were under attack.]
One final check of the cottage - pulled out each drawer and searched
under the bed - and we pulled the car out quietly. Time had to pass. It
did.
Not much to report about the trip home. It didn't seem to take quite
as long as our trip there. We passed again all the pretty little villages
and grassy marshes. The trees along the way were more colored than the
previous weekend. I saw so many opportunities to stop for photographs but
I didn't want to break the silence in the car for that.
We returned to the apartment in 8 hours. Like coming home from the BVI,
it was odd to leave such a sublime place and arrive back to our canyons
of buildings. When we opened our door Christopher was happy to see us and
inspected everything that entered his home.
Later we ordered Chinese and ate in bed. Vacation? Had it really happened?
If you enjoyed this trip report, you might also enjoy Steve's version,
which starts here.
