THE Bay #3

On Monday morning the usual coastal fog had lifted. I could sense the anticipation of lobster boats maneuvering to their bright color coded buoys hoping for their traps to be filled with treasured crustaceans.  The bay looked like a busy parking lot.  Watching men and women pull lines, ropes and traps using their tried and true rituals made of honed skills and sea blessings I see, through binoculars, their weathered faces. Captains with long flowing chin hairs, others with short stubby whiskers but the view of a couple of rugged Maine women draws a "You go girl" from my heart. Rolled up sleeves on well worn faded flannel, patched rubber boots, yellow rubber gloves and the tattered  visors on the baseball cap tell the tales of salt water life.  In the distance I see a large flat barge heading out to sea coming from Downeast as it heads to the open ocean with empty decks and a different destination.  An amazing way to start another gifted beautiful summer day on the bay with my most trying issue being what fresh seafood will I feast upon today. Lobsters steamed, broiled, stuffed or done in rolls, salads, stew or cocktails. Clams fried to the perfect hue or steamed with warm drawn butter as a side but then oh, that clam chowdah! Oysters raw and juicy waiting with a kick of Tabasco to tease my palate or cooked to perfection any other way. The lure of tiny Maine shrimp in a creamy pasta sauce or fried in a wire basket presented in a red and white paper boat always makes a hit. White firm halibut blackened and served with aioli on a pan toasted homemade bun teases my choice.  Haddock baked, stuffed, fried or in a creamy, steamy chowdah emitting aromas of white wine, caramelized onion and Maine potatoes. Then of course what wine shall be chilled to enjoy with any of these unparalleled beauties. I find that my decision tends to be based on how many days I have left on the bay.

What perfect weather weeks this unpredictable climate has given. Sun and clouds, cool ocean breezes on the porch, windows open in the house. Sweatshirts needed in late afternoons and evenings.  I pry myself from the porch to explore Belfast, a town I know so well.

It was in the early 1960's, sitting in our family station wagon where my nose was introduced to Belfast. It was the poultry capital of Maine. Long barns of chicken houses covered in red or gray tarred shingles lined the road into town. Open flatbed trucks loaded with wooden crates stacked towers high of live chickens packed like sardines traveling to designated slaughter houses. The stench of manure and the shower of loose white feathers told the story of descent from the caged poultry. I hold a vivid memory of early Belfast.  Little did I know that I would at one time in my young life work a summer in one of those slaughter houses.

No longer a poultry center, the rebirth of Belfast has been an ever changing tapestry of livelihoods, ingenuity, acceptance, risk and growth. Downtown Belfast ranks as one of my favorite small towns and from the growing numbers of summer visitors I dodge I can safely say it must be for others as well.

The complete rebuild of Belfast Harbor is nothing short of amazing. There was a time I would launch my kayak at the bottom of the main street and paddle about only dealing with a few skiffs and a couple small cabin boats. Now with a dredged harbor, a massive boatyard fronted by a well constructed river walk, scores of vessels of all shapes and sizes and a docking area for a cruise ship any kayak put in would be wisely aborted.  

No trip into town would be complete without a stop at the cozy book store just off of Main street. The quilting of shelves of colorfully bound books, some carrying the name of Maine authors, radiates a welcome home. My purchase will be enjoyed and housed in our book and bottle library back home. Restaurants, coffee shops, retail adventures all call to those ambling along the streets of this harbor town.  My Saturday morning jaunt takes me to the open doors of the indoor farmers market. Locals fill the stalls with the tastes of the Maine waters and countryside. Colliding smells of freshly deep fried tiny donuts tossed in a brown bag of cinnamon sugar that will not even make it out the door.  Ice filled coolers piled with live lobsters and steamers, pans of freshly caught haddock and halibut all ready to purchase. Sea scallops bathe in a tub of natural juices as squid bodies lounge over peaks of ice. A feast for my eyes!  Whoopie pies, cupcakes, baked goods galore add to the collage of aromas in the air.  Thai noodles, homemade pastas, lamb chops, beef jerky all locally grown and raised fill out the days menu.  Leather pouches and bags, silver bracelets and earrings, woven yarns of mittens and socks given by local sheep and molded by local hands cement in me the strength of mid-coast Maine.  A weighted basket in tow, I return to my seacoast retreat.

Weekends on the porch treat me to a flotilla of vessels. I count twenty seven sailboats of every size on this perfect ocean day. Small sailfish boats, single masted cabin ones, towing their little dinghies and then there is the parade of two, three, four and six masted sailboats nosing into the prevailing winds with whitecaps kissing their bows. Two old wooden schooners taking tourists out for a day adventure or sunset cruise. I imagine the days of old when travelers were daring to get to eastern shores in search of a better life. A time when all were welcomed to our nation with open arms. A time when their hopes and dreams quelled silent fears of unknown perils. I hold such admiration for their absolute determination.  The slow passage of a huge private yacht holds my stare. It is bound for Belfast harbor. I think about who must be standing on her decks, where they are bound for post Belfast...maybe it's a Russian oligarch, Bill Gates or Tom Brady. Witnessing this example of excess causes me no wanting. I learned early on that my life joys were not about stuff but about who. 

The parade of wildlife continued as the tide began to turn and the deep blue sea started its dress to dark. Painted wooden buoys rhythmically bobbed in and out of my sight. Boats tacked back towards their moorings and the kaleidoscope of orange, red and yellow faded to hues of a violet and blue when the sun grazed the sea.  A gull rides the breeze past the porch and I greet it with "Hi Jonathan Livingston".  The blackness has come, all but for the torch of the moon.

Dark time does not disappoint. Windbreaker zipped, wine in hand I combed the sea. Birds are silent now. I hear the waves tolling the red nun buoy marking the channel to the approaching harbor. I see the reflection of the monument in the moonbeam sky and I smell the salty air of the Atlantic. What gifts these are. My love of this fills my soul like a Christmas dinner and I know I will always love this spot, this view, this place.  The month here is vanishing quickly. I salute the sea and give thanks for my day. I am eager to greet the new morning.

7:32 a.m. I stand by the table, eyes out to sea. I see gently rolling on the bay, between the porch and the monument, a wake in the water that takes me out to my porch. No boats in sight. The sea is calm and smooth as winter ice. I peer at the wake moving south to north coming from Belfast harbor, I am puzzled by its breadth. I watch as it approaches me just beyond the porch. It is high tide, the wake builds, the water rises and breaks as I witness the arching back of a black whale. I cannot believe the natural moment I am being given. This mighty whale smoothly and slowly showed me her sleek tail, no dorsal fin but her blow hole in view. I never saw her eyes, she never breached. Seconds passed quickly and she dove out of sight. I stood in pajamas like a whaling captain at sea searching for another sign of her. The melting of her wake reappeared well past the monument as she headed out to sea. The pause of that scene forever burned into my mind. Yet another majestic treasure given by Mother Nature, how blessed I felt. I would never forget when I saw the whale, close as she could be, in my sea.