BLOWIN’ IN THE WIND

‘It’s hot as Hell.’ Nonsense! Who has been to Hell and back to tell us how hot it is there? One thing for sure, it has to be hotter than Florida in July, but just the same, Florida July is too hot for me. I’m out of here, headed for the New England coast, Maine to be exact. Kennebunkport to be more explicit. I’ve been there before, seen what there is to see yet it draws me again. It is restful, historically well preserved, friendly and has super great lobster eateries. Close your eyes, pick one, and you will not have made a mistake.

The northeast coast sure beats the daily Florida t.v. threats giving hurricane coordinates, latitudes, longitudes where a hurricane may be forming off the coast of Africa, may strike Cuba and then Florida. It may go south to Key West and travel into the gulf or go up to Palm Beach. It is too much for me.

From Miami I fly to Boston where an Alamo rental is pre-arranged for my delicious two week taste of heaven. In town I watch the tourists amble slowly, breathing the salt, amazed how strong the old wooden houses still stand strong against the wind, the winter cold. They are treasures to cherish.

Sturdy nets, colorful lobster pots scream at me from every corner. ‘Take my picture.’ I snap. I snap, knowing I already have dozens of similar ones at home. The cool wonderment drowns me.

A small, clean inn, the Arcadia, will be home for tonight. It is charming with little do-dads everywhere, a soft comforter on a four poster bed, eider down pillows. Best of all is the cook, who knows just what to do with the lobsters–Steam ‘em. It’s cruel but I try not to think about that as the big white chunks swim in butter and slide down my throat. Next to my table is a middle aged couple from Idaho who have never been out of their state. We chat. He wipes the lemon meringue off his lips as I finish a huge juicy claw. Mr. Idaho was not impressed with the lobsters. ‘Too much trouble,’ he tells me. I give him some tourist tips and go to my waiting comfort zone.

My next stop will be the rocky coast, far less populated than the towns, but a lot more thrilling. Schoodic Point in Winter Park is where I aim. It’s my favorite place along the wild rocky shoreline. There is a fairly safe parking area at the top of a crag. I take a chance. As I open the door, it almost flies off its hinges. The wind is full of spray and salt and a lot of power. No one is around. I ponder and imagine being blown away. Not a good thought, I turn my mind to a lobster boat past the crashing waves.

And then I see someone, a man, sitting on a gigantic almost smooth boulder, too close to the edge. His head rests on his bent knees, his arms around them. He is unaware of me. I have no intention of alarming him, turn carefully and walk to what I believe will be a safer place to watch the birds fight the wind, swoop and miraculously rise, holding a squirming fish in sharp talons. If I’m lucky, I may see a rare eagle.

For an hour I am seduced by the glory of nature. The blue cloudless sky covers my world. The foaming waves below me, the golden rust of the cliffs are accent spots. My camera can’t possibly show what I feel, but I snap, snap.

And when I look around for the man with his head on his knees, his arms around them, he is gone.

And I’ll never know where he went.