To Ride a Mailboat

So here we are. A year after I started writing in earnest, a Friday in mid-September.

Today has gone overcast, cold, raw. I am in thermals, in the cafe. The latter emptied out shortly after I arrived, and now I am being left to my own devices so that Alison and Kate can catch up on dishes. I have my hot cocoa, my computer, and am seldom demanding. Dave is the vocal, sassy one, and he is away.

I myself have been off-island for what seems like ages- four days. In those four days, a barge with a massive crane has moved in and set up shop to build a new town landing and tear down the old. Another week of school has passed. Store hours have changed, though only slightly- it is now closed Sundays, which is a much kinder measure than I expected. I had heard rumors they were immediately making the draconian cutback to winter hours- Wednesdays and Saturdays, from 2:30-4:30. The Dark's dad is preparing to float a house from a nearby island to this one. He is also going to haul the salvageable bits of the burnt house to his property. He collects houses you see, the way some of us collect teacups, or ships in bottles.

I got much of this news on the mailboat- we don't have a newspaper, primarily because we have mailboat captains. In Stonington, the dock was thickly dotted with tourists, or variations on the theme. Using my last cellular gasps before AT&T's coverage died, I told Dave of my hope that I was loved enough to be allowed to board ahead of the herd. If only, I moaned, love was measured in days per year spent on the island. Hands down, I would be the most well-loved person on the landing. My call was then interrupted by the woman who does the directing of the traffic- lo and behold, she was having me board first. It was a courtesy to the person who knows the ropes and wants minimal contact with unbridled enthusiasm, confusion, and cameras.

When the boat is scantly filled in the autumn or early spring, when the tourist traffic is thin, I often fall into conversation with people coming out to visit. When they gather that I live on the island year-round, they get a hopeful light in their eyes, and the questions begin. Generally, I am happy to answer. For all that Mainers are depicted as taciturn to the point of rigor mortis, it's kinda nice to play welcome wagon. To pay attention because it hasn't been demanded. I talk about the demographics, about how we pass the winters, I point out the landmarks of town such as they are, and tell them about how I landed here. I talk about hiking trails, and discuss the merits of Black Dinah chocolates; I tell people the store hours. Telling the story of life here passes the time nicely, though on occasion I feel a bit like a monkey at a zoo, or one of the Inuit on display at the world's fair back in the day: behold an "exotic!" Oh well, by and large it is a fun role to play. If I didn't love talking about life here, I wouldn't be writing this.

Today I spent the ride sitting on the threshold of port-side door, next to the wheel, away from the Madding crowd. This mid-day run was on the Mink, the boat company's plain Jane winter/freight boat: the Mink is a far cry from the cold, sleek Miss Lizzie- she of the showy bow and roof seating, tailored to summer numbers and tastes.

In close quarters with the wheel, I caught up with Garrett as he steered. He'd just had his two days off and was intrigued by what island goings-on had gone on while he was gone. Still, he had newer info than I. He told me about the plan to float the house, we made note of the excavator out on that small island as we went by; I told him about my cousin's engagement. We discussed the process of razing and building the new town landing. Becky, the deckhand, offered me the last mini-whoopee pie from a batch she'd secured from my neighbor.

It is always a pleasure, whether the boat is packed or empty. Whoopee pies or no. Life here is such a mix of Springfield (goodbye, Guiding Light!) and Mayberry, there's bound to be something to chew over. And when I am not in the mood to talk, there is always the scenery. Even if the scenery consists of fog meeting the water three yards off the boat.