Essays of Maine.

Part 1

That boat on the choppy waves.

The restaurant on the pier.

The little red cottage just up the hill, looking out over the water.

That’s what my dreams have been made of.

That’s what I have been chasing for all these years.

That little piece of paradise that no one knew was there.

That little scene that only I knew to be heaven.

Part 2

The rocks down by the shore.

How big those rocks seemed to just a little boy and his even smaller brother. Those boys, so excited to climb to the top to look out over the waves. The first time ever those eyes seeing the ocean. Never knowing if they would ever see anything this great again.

Part 3

I remember the up and down movement of the front of the boat.

The crashing splash of the waves.

The mist coming up so high and so cold with the gusting wind. It seemed as if we were moving so fast.

Though I think now, we may not have barely been moving at all.

When the whales breach for the first time it’s like you’re not even sure what you’re seeing.

And then the water sprays, and you’re a child watching fireworks. And then they come again.

And again.

And they roll on their sides as they spray more water and you feel like you’re running in a field with horses or dogs or something that just loves having you run with them.

Because they are just there with you.

There’s no reward.

No treat.

Just your company.

Part four

One of my favorite memories to think about was how it looked when I would gaze up from the shore. Standing near the water on the rocky beach.

The pebbles so small, so perfectly smooth.

No defects.

When I would turn and look up I would see the trees and the hills, which I would swear were mountains, go on and on, up and up.

And just that little red cottage at the base of it all, over looking the water and that smooth pebbled beach.

To this day I’m still not sure if that’s how it really was. I tell myself at some moments that I have exaggerated all the details. Or even imagined the whole thing all together.

But that’s how I’ll always remember it. That’s how I’ll always love it.

Those rolling mountain hills, covered in trees so tall, as I stand on that perfect rocky beach.

With the pebbles so smooth.

So small.

Part five

Someday, I hope to return to that place. That secret little scene that only I knew as heaven. It’s how I’ve always imagined spending the last of my days.

Standing by the water of those rocky beaches.

The almost too cold mist of the waves spraying upon my face.

Staring up at those rolling mountain hills covered in trees so tall with my old grey eyes. The same grey of the sky that backdrops it all.

And when I would turn and look up, there she would be. Standing ever so peacefully.

So patient.

She’s what I’ve been traveling through life for, for all this time.

That safe, comforting feeling. That free feeling I haven’t felt in so many years.

She’s there, standing.

Still.

With the trees to her back, overlooking the shores, with the pebbles so smooth. So small.

She’s still there, that little red cottage.

Standing.

And waiting.