Maine Memories (a rather belated post)

I’ve been back from Maine for almost a month and still haven’t posted a recap. And that’s because there’s both not much to say and too much. (And because I’ve been stupid busy, but that’s another story.)

We had no great adventures, if by adventures you mean “exciting new experiences, thrills, chills, and spills.” Ogunquit is a place we’ve visited often, so much of what we did was revisiting familiar favorites and re-experiencing familiar pleasures. We walked Marginal Way; we had a lovely dinner at The Old Village Inn (proudly old-fashioned); we went to the kite festival on the beach; and of course, despite cool weather, we went to the beach just about every day, if only to walk. (We were in walking distance of Footbridge Beach and could see the ocean, albeit through trees, from our condo’s balcony.) Although we didn’t get any actual storms while we were there (darn!), Hurricane Isaac skirted by, out to sea, on its way to Canada, so we did get some rough surf. In fact, for a few days, the beach was “red-flagged” due to a dangerous undertow. What a tease, to have such lovely surf and not be able to play in it! Still, just being there, seeing the surf, smelling the salt air, did me a lot of good. Maybe more good, in some ways, than a hot, sunny week playing in the water. That’s always wonderful, but stormy weather appeals to my fey side.

We found one outstanding new to us restaurant, Clay Hill Farm, which was built as in 1780 as, you guessed it, a farm. It’s a lovely setting, surrounded by gardens; we’ll have to go back in the daytime and explore. The lobster bisque was stellar, the lobster risotto lobster-rific, and they cure their own meats (which were all pork, so I couldn’t enjoy them, but Jeff did.) Pricey, but worth it.

One day was spent mostly at craft fairs, doing some holiday shopping. On several others, I enjoyed bubble baths in the Jacuzzi tub in the condo. OK, we enjoyed bubble baths and that’s all I’m saying on that subject because for someone who writes highly explicit erotica, I’m curiously reticent about my own sex life. We finally shared the bottle of Veuve Clicquot we’d bought for New Year’s Eve, which was cancelled due to flu. I ate roughly a ton of lobster.

On our last day there, we woke up early and staggered down to the beach to watch the sun rise. Magnificent. I see sunrise more often than I’d like, due to my work schedule, but it’s different seeing it over the Atlantic than between suburban trees and over suburban roofs. I’m hoping the memory will help me look at those suburban sunrises with a fresh perspective.

And on the way home, we detoured to Gloucester, MA, where I had a small epiphany. I love maritime history. Love being around old boats. Love reading about the ships of yore. And I’ve been avoiding seaports and boats and maritime museums for years because my ex The Boat-builder force-fed me maritime history and boat-building so much it soured my interest. Guess what? It’s back. In most ways I’ve been over the Boat-builder for close to two decades. He’s a good man, and we were good for each other in some ways as young people trying to find our way in the world, but we needed different things. And without him, and our struggles and all the things we didn’t express until it was too late, I probably wouldn’t have been ready for Jeff. So here’s to you, Boat-builder. Maybe we’ll run into you at some historic seaport sometime and we’ll buy you a beer, or whatever you’re drinking these days.

Aren’t these old dories lovely? Once I could have told you all about them. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to again.