Characters
On first thought, the characters of Harpswell include Sheldon Morse, Bethany McNelly-Davis, Scott Moody, and Frankie Bichrest. On second thought, that excludes many the individuals, though maybe not living, that make up the local community.
The land creatures include Chevy Silverados, GMC Sierras, and Dodge Rams with an occasional Ford or Nissan truck thrown in the mix. Throughout Harpswell, at the start of every wharf is up to a dozen pick-ups squeezed into a dirt patch at the edge of the road. They generally come in shades of red, blue, or black and wait dutifully until their driver returns from the water.
When the fishermen park their trucks, they leave behind their land vehicle in favor of their water vessel. From around all the wharves there are patterns in the boat names. Each boat reflects its owner and also carries a character of its own. Many are afloat, though some are relegated to lawn centerpieces. There are the proper Miss Molly, Miss Amherst, and Miss Devin; the pairs Ruth & Pat, Kristin & Kelly, and Dorie & Colby; the double names Marcy Elizabeth, Jolene Sarah, and Martha Ellen; the successor Karen Elizabeth and KE II; and the last initials Carolyn B, Marjorie L, and Luna C. But only half the boats have traditionally female names. The others include the still feminine Island Lady, Mistress, and The Other Woman; the references of Captain Morgan, Bucephalus, and Flying Dutchman; the hopeful Anticipation, Sonny’s Dream, and Ray of Hope; and the others like Black Magic, Pricele$$, Flush, and Piece of Bass.
Then there are the boats’ subjects. Unnamed but not unmarked. Some look like apples with a red buoy and bright green stick. There are bright colors for easy spotting and dull colors more likely to get snagged on a passing propeller. There’s a green sandwich with gray bread. There’s red with white on top and white with red on top. There are buoys that are teal with a deep red below the water line, each stick draped with a rockweed scarf. So many more lobster buoys bob in Maine’s waters labeled by their color codes.
On first thought, the characters of Harpswell include Sheldon Morse, Bethany McNelly-Davis, Scott Moody, and Frankie Bichrest. On second thought, that excludes many the individuals, though maybe not living, that make up the local community.
The land creatures include Chevy Silverados, GMC Sierras, and Dodge Rams with an occasional Ford or Nissan truck thrown in the mix. Throughout Harpswell, at the start of every wharf is up to a dozen pick-ups squeezed into a dirt patch at the edge of the road. They generally come in shades of red, blue, or black and wait dutifully until their driver returns from the water.
When the fishermen park their trucks, they leave behind their land vehicle in favor of their water vessel. From around all the wharves there are patterns in the boat names. Each boat reflects its owner and also carries a character of its own. Many are afloat, though some are relegated to lawn centerpieces. There are the proper Miss Molly, Miss Amherst, and Miss Devin; the pairs Ruth & Pat, Kristin & Kelly, and Dorie & Colby; the double names Marcy Elizabeth, Jolene Sarah, and Martha Ellen; the successor Karen Elizabeth and KE II; and the last initials Carolyn B, Marjorie L, and Luna C. But only half the boats have traditionally female names. The others include the still feminine Island Lady, Mistress, and The Other Woman; the references of Captain Morgan, Bucephalus, and Flying Dutchman; the hopeful Anticipation, Sonny’s Dream, and Ray of Hope; and the others like Black Magic, Pricele$$, Flush, and Piece of Bass.
Then there are the boats’ subjects. Unnamed but not unmarked. Some look like apples with a red buoy and bright green stick. There are bright colors for easy spotting and dull colors more likely to get snagged on a passing propeller. There’s a green sandwich with gray bread. There’s red with white on top and white with red on top. There are buoys that are teal with a deep red below the water line, each stick draped with a rockweed scarf. So many more lobster buoys bob in Maine’s waters labeled by their color codes.
The Road
The road is a narrow strip of asphalt, gray with age and cracked from winter’s expanding ice. It is just wide enough to lay down a double yellow line and two white ones at its flanks. Along the edge there are occasional American flags waving from flagpoles, telephone poles, and mailboxes. Houses set back just so from the road are hugged by blossoming rhododendrons. Their bursts of fuchsia and pinkish-red interrupt the homogeneity of the bright green canopy. In the morning, there are people walking on the side of the road. One man wears khaki shorts and a slightly greener polo shirt separated by a tight brown belt pulled high. He wears walking sneakers of the same color with tall white socks that match his hair color. With a brimmed cap and swiftly pumping arms, he cruises along the dirt edge of what would be the road’s shoulder.
The signs on the side of the road are all blue with white writing from regulations restricting signage—but they tell of summer buzz. All but a few are for Inns or Lobster Shacks. Seeing those signs in the winter feels ghostly.
The road is a narrow strip of asphalt, gray with age and cracked from winter’s expanding ice. It is just wide enough to lay down a double yellow line and two white ones at its flanks. Along the edge there are occasional American flags waving from flagpoles, telephone poles, and mailboxes. Houses set back just so from the road are hugged by blossoming rhododendrons. Their bursts of fuchsia and pinkish-red interrupt the homogeneity of the bright green canopy. In the morning, there are people walking on the side of the road. One man wears khaki shorts and a slightly greener polo shirt separated by a tight brown belt pulled high. He wears walking sneakers of the same color with tall white socks that match his hair color. With a brimmed cap and swiftly pumping arms, he cruises along the dirt edge of what would be the road’s shoulder.
The signs on the side of the road are all blue with white writing from regulations restricting signage—but they tell of summer buzz. All but a few are for Inns or Lobster Shacks. Seeing those signs in the winter feels ghostly.
Migration
In the early summer, lobster pots migrate from lawns where they hibernated for the winter. They move from backyards to pick-up trucks to wharves to moored rafts and finally out to their summer homes in the sea. Each trap is a meter long metal cage with netting inside. They are yellow, green, black, and sometimes orange. Wherever they are, they’re stacked four or five high, waiting for their next move.
In fishermen’s lawns, there can be dozens of stacks, though they are only brought down to the wharves in pick-up truck- or trailer-sized loads. Accompanying the traps are blue plastic barrels of rope for each one, and piles of hundred of buoys all painted with the same color patterns. In mid-June, many wait on rafts in the harbor to be sent off to the summer homes in the water. By mid-July, while the seas are littered with metal cages, some traps still sit in lawns where boats are remain on stands, not going out fishing for the year.
In the early summer, lobster pots migrate from lawns where they hibernated for the winter. They move from backyards to pick-up trucks to wharves to moored rafts and finally out to their summer homes in the sea. Each trap is a meter long metal cage with netting inside. They are yellow, green, black, and sometimes orange. Wherever they are, they’re stacked four or five high, waiting for their next move.
In fishermen’s lawns, there can be dozens of stacks, though they are only brought down to the wharves in pick-up truck- or trailer-sized loads. Accompanying the traps are blue plastic barrels of rope for each one, and piles of hundred of buoys all painted with the same color patterns. In mid-June, many wait on rafts in the harbor to be sent off to the summer homes in the water. By mid-July, while the seas are littered with metal cages, some traps still sit in lawns where boats are remain on stands, not going out fishing for the year.
Fog
The sky and water are one
Color. Today they are gray,
Other times white or blue.
A skiff speeds into harbor
Out of the blue.
It emerges from behind the curtain
Of fog.
This is boating on the coast of Maine.
Fog cloaks the water and
The water is sprinkled with a
Rainbow of lobster buoys.
The sky and water are one
Color. Today they are gray,
Other times white or blue.
A skiff speeds into harbor
Out of the blue.
It emerges from behind the curtain
Of fog.
This is boating on the coast of Maine.
Fog cloaks the water and
The water is sprinkled with a
Rainbow of lobster buoys.
Fog Burns Off
As it gets sunnier, the fog begins to burn off and you can see fog rolling into the bay.
By midday, the fog is completely lifted over land. The sky is a clear blue with bright sun. But directly over the water, the fog still looms. Looking out into every bay in town is gray and looking up above every road in town is bright blue.
Its feels almost like a solar eclipse, with the sun reaching some parts but oddly blocked in other areas. This coastal weather gives the whole town an eerie feel.
As it gets sunnier, the fog begins to burn off and you can see fog rolling into the bay.
By midday, the fog is completely lifted over land. The sky is a clear blue with bright sun. But directly over the water, the fog still looms. Looking out into every bay in town is gray and looking up above every road in town is bright blue.
Its feels almost like a solar eclipse, with the sun reaching some parts but oddly blocked in other areas. This coastal weather gives the whole town an eerie feel.