Even before we moved into our magical log home perched on top of a massive gleaming granite ledge within the pine wood we’ve named WildAir, we knew we needed kayaks.
We had no idea what kind, how much to pay, where to get a good deal, how to get them home, etc. Then our new neighbor across the dirt road gave us his. Or at least generously told us where they were and told us we were welcome to them. Where they were was where he and his longtime partner had left them on their cove-front beach of rocks before she passed away last year. Such terrible loss remains present in gifts such as these two yellow kayaks and we cherish the extra load of love they come with…
The kayaks (pictured here) enjoyed their proud perch this summer on our own tumble of sea-side rocks and grass. They were ably guarded over by another gift from a close family friend, a dense, concrete statue we named Circe of the Cove. Sandy and I enjoyed sitting in the (also inherited) plastic Adirondack chairs, taking in the rising and falling tides of Long Cove, with Circe and our new little boats behind us.
We left Wild Air a few weeks ago, (early September) to check back in to our other world, Philly and New York. It’s awfully tough missing our log home and our little patch of sea. We left knowing we’d be back soon, Sandy this coming week and me early October, and so left those two yellow kayaks right where they spent the summer, on the sea’s edge. Unfortunately, Hurricane Lee took her time churning massively up the Atlantic towards Maine and we spent a fretful week from afar worrying whether they’d still be anywhere close to where we left them when we return. We’ll let you know, when we do.
As we followed the local news of Tenants Harbor and St. George and Midcoast from here in Philly via The Maine Monitor, local press and of course a few key Facebook (ugggh!) groups, we felt connected to that world with a surprisingly rich depth of sensation. One story of loss had a happy ending when the St. George message board notified the social denizens that four pigs were loose and wandering about the docks and parking lots of Port Clyde, the main fishing port at the tip of St. George. Along with everybody (even 500 miles apart) we cheered when the lobsterman-hog farmer posted to the group he was just “putting his boat on its mooring” and would be there soon to round up and reclaim his wandering hogs.
We too will be back soon, hopefully to reclaim those two yellow kayaks if the recent storm didn’t take them out to sea. Our few weeks back here – “away” – have been hectic, with Thom commuting twice a week to teach in New York, Sandy finishing up one amazing art project (see next week’s post on her primitive rug-hooking portrait) and starting another, and both of us enjoying a ton of family and friends face time. But we can’t wait to return to the here of St. George, as measured against the away of everywhere else.
Here From Away 