It was a three day weekend in July when I snuck away. Work was wearing me thin, and I was in desperate need of new scenery to lift my spirits. As soon as the car was packed, Ed and I jumped on 95 North. We passed through Manchester, towards the seacoast finally passing under a big green sign that shouted TO ALL MAINE POINTS.
We ended up at Lamoine, a state campground tucked into Downeast Maine. With its scenery, and proximity to Mount Desert Island it is the best of both worlds. One could go to Bar Harbor, look at the bustling waterfront, but retreat to a quiet campground off the isle. My family has been coming to Lamoine for years and every year I look forward to it. Recently, I have found my time here has been limited due to work. Yet when I can, I always make my way to Maine and that quiet little campground that sits off Frenchmans Bay.
As always, I found myself sitting in the grass at the edge of the park, looking out towards the Frenchmans Bay. A plane appeared out of the the clouds tailed by another, their bright underbellies glinting in the afternoon sun. their engine humming as they crisscross overhead.
As they moved over the bay and towards the island, the dull roar of the engines slowly faded away. A gnarled path thick with roots and rocks lead down to the shore. It melts into a shoreline that is a mix of shale and storm blown rocks, worn smooth by the battering tides. The water rhythmically hits the shore again and again for eternity. Out in the bay the boats spin around on their moorings. I sit there quietly. My soul finally relaxing and coming together once more.
Through a hole in the trees, I spy a lobster boat. The diesel engine kicking up and slowing down.Rust running down the side, They spin around out in the bay grabbing buoys and pulling pots over the side. You can see the guys on the back deck in their bright orange waders. The wind kicks up filling my nostrils with the smell of the open ocean only a few miles away. I am able to relive beautiful childhood memories here in all their vivid color.
I miss those tender days of summer. The high grass and the seashore, the Grey shale beaches of Lamoine and the way the sun reflects off the water just right. How we used to rode out bikes down to the point. Past the weather beaten sign that pointed down to Clamshell Alley. The way the bike tires hummed, and it felt like those summer days would never come to an end.
But when you are younger you don’t have a real grasp of time. You don’t understand that as adulthood approaches that those endless summer days will end. Part of me wishes that I could go back an tell myself that. We are all in such a rush to reach adulthood, that we don’t realize what we are missing till we are adults left with dreams and memories.