Lifesaving Lessons Read online

  A teenage girl was pregnant and had narrowed the paternal possibilities down to one of two who happened to be brothers; two couples were separated and headed toward divorce; a newcomer had happened upon the island and taken up residence in a summer home (with or without permission—no one was quite sure) where it was rumored he was manufacturing drugs in the bathtub; a small association of summer residents had managed to pull off a very clever real estate bait and switch; there were reports of domestic violence; two of our fishermen were well on their way to drinking themselves to death; and our hired power company employee had supposedly staged his own death—suicide by kayak. He had disappeared without a trace, and the authorities certainly hadn’t spent any time searching for his body.

  “Really, Linny? Do I have to come out here to learn all of this? You’ve been here all winter! And we speak on the phone every day!” Bif teased. The truth was that I had heard bits and pieces of all of the scuttlebutt during the winter, but had never engaged in conversation enough to fully understand or repeat anything. Oh, and yes, I was too consumed with my own incongruity to pay attention to others’. “Mariah will be working at Black Dinah Café for the summer! Isn’t that great? A café on Isle au Haut … It’s about time.”

  “Yeah, I knew that,” I answered in defense of what must have appeared as sheer ignorance.

  So I had to acknowledge that there had been a lot going on this winter and then attempt to explain to my sister, in the face of her continual questioning, why I had denied that anything was happening now that she understood much to the contrary. Because Bif rarely visits the island between Labor Day and Memorial Day (with the exception of New Year’s Eve on the millennium, which we would all sooner forget), it was difficult to explain how sticking my head in the sand, or snow in this case, had been preferable to being an integral part of the winter population. No, time had not completely stood still, as I might have falsely indicated. Yes, there had been stuff going on.

  It seemed to me, in hindsight, that winter happenings were all just undercurrent. The undertow was stronger than the waves on the surface. Things below the surface are always dark, but as summer came along, this aspect was reversed. The snow receded into thin strips that eventually disappeared. The rabbits were brown again, and boats were launched. As the days grew longer and warmer, people were everywhere. Fishermen were back to work, the store was open more often and was better stocked, and all things were happier. I finished my writing project and was thrilled to be back on the water. My social life was budding with the lilacs and included both seasonal and year-round folks. The kids were out of school; those who boarded at private schools were home, including Mariah to whom I hadn’t spoken in months. The young people added real spark to other changes. It was as though our island oyster world had been opened. And like a lobster in molt, we now had room to stretch and grow. Things always look better in the light of day.

  CHAPTER 4

  Summer Return

  Because my parents had become snowbirds, exiting the island for Florida earlier and earlier every year, it doesn’t seem that winter has had an official end until they return, regardless of any calendar indicating otherwise. The vernal equinox might have passed on March 20, but I say spring hasn’t sprung until my mother steps from the boat to the town landing. May 1 used to be that date. From what I understand, that ended the year following my Mother’s Day gift of a ride to Barter Creek in my old truck to dig clams. And this year my folks didn’t make an appearance until June! So in that calendar, winter is indeed long and spring is super short, which is fine because most Mainers refer to spring as “mud season.” Mud season, which is as exciting as the name suggests, is something my mother has learned to avoid. “It’s just so damned gray and brown. I don’t know how anyone can stand it,” she has been known to say often when trying to entice me to join Dad and her down south. And I am always tempted, sometimes giving in to temptation to the detriment of whatever work I might otherwise feel compelled to grind out.

  Work and the need to do it is something my parents once understood. Having said that, it is also something that in their current age has caused confusion. When my folks do arrive on the island, my mother is slightly let down because, in her words, “Vacation is over.” To me, vacation indicates a break from a job or employment, and I have often wondered what it means to my mother. Her schedule while on Isle au Haut, from my observations, is 100 percent social. What she could possibly consider employment, or even a light task that she doesn’t also deal with in Florida, is beyond me. Mom is somewhat of a princess. I mean that in the nicest way. I have heard that women my age often come to a realization that they are becoming their mothers. I sure would like to become mine. But so far it’s not happening. I am a chronic workaholic, and a tomboy to boot. Mom is neither. While I am aware that life on an island is more difficult—everything is a chore—it is a stretch to say that Mom works. She does keep my father pretty busy, though. And at eighty-one, he would say that his vacation is over when he and Mom hit the shore.

  Dad’s honey-do list, which is a running mental tally of things Mom needs done, is like the bottomless mug of coffee served at a truck stop. Every time progress is made toward the bottom of the cup, someone fills it back up. Mom’s philosophy is that Dad will “get old” if she allows him to “sit around.” If that has any merit, I’d say that Dad has found the fountain of youth. My father spends an inordinate amount of time under the house and up in his workshop. At Mom’s insistence, and in spite of his white-collar career, my father has honed all of the trade skills to a level of competent proficiency. Dad has always been a meticulous project doer, to the point of driving insane some of us who are more of the shoddy, slam-banger type.

  If Mom’s vacation is over in June, she is in a very small minority. I live for June! Not only are my parents back, but so are many of my summer friends who are vacationing in the very traditional sense of the word. June is when I take the first of my buddies to arrive on island out to haul lobster traps with me and cook our catch over an open fire on the beach. And, since the Mother’s Day gift blunder, June is when I now dig my first “mess of clams,” or just the right amount to eat. The measure of “mess” varies wildly, depending on the strength of the back doing the digging, the number of mouths to feed, the mosquitoes, the weather, the tide, et cetera. June is often when I see the bulk of the year-round community that I may not have caught a glimpse of all winter, and teasingly accuse them of coming out of hibernation (although this particular June, the same could have been said of me). June is when the island can be held in a cool, foggy embrace that softens everything to a pale mist and muffles all but the screech of gulls working the first school of baitfish. June is when my nephews, Aubrey and Addison, proudly jig the season’s first mackerel and demand that I cook it even if it looks like it’s been on the dock for hours and then caught in the spokes of a bicycle on the trip from wharf to kitchen. June is when everyone waves when passing, and most stop to talk, making an otherwise ten-minute errand to the post office an odyssey. June is when the plastic, pink flamingos find Isle au Haut in their migration route and seem to be fickle about where they roost. June is when all I see of Ed White, our car mechanic, is the top of his head bobbing over the hood or his legs sticking out from under someone’s temperamental ride.

  The first Sunday in June is when the Island’s only church begins its summer service, and when the bell rings at 10:00 a.m., I can imagine the young boys in their blue blazers and girls in crisp, white dresses gleefully pulling on the rope. June marks the beginning of a full inventory at the Island Store. Peanut butter, baked beans, and elbow macaroni make way for duck confit, truffle oil, and anchovies. Iceberg lettuce bows to endive and organic greens. Budweiser steps aside for pinot noir. White sandwich bread cowers before multigrains and baguettes, and hot dogs are upstaged by selections boasting of boneless, skinless, and prime.

  This particular June hosted the grand opening of the much discussed and much anticipated Black Dinah Café. O
ne of the most beautiful things about the café is its location. Kate and Steve’s home and business is a five-minute walk from my front door. Kate is a master chocolatier. Need I say more? Black Dinah chocolates are the best, and nobody does pastry like Kate. The June opening of the café filled the void in their chocolate Internet sales and mail boat/UPS winter-shipping chaos in a nice way. The café is the first and only to offer islanders coffee and pastry and free Wi-Fi. (Until my neighbors opened their café, the only option for anyone seeking these things was sitting outside the Town Hall with a thermos.) I didn’t miss many mornings of coffee and scone or cinnamon roll at the café. Kate and Steve became part of my daily morning routine as our evenings together faded.

  A casual observer might note that the usual customers of the café were quite an unusual mix. But that is often the case here on the island. Our saltiest fisherman shares a table with our most noted Wall Street guy. The fisherman’s wife shares warm conversation with an upper-crust summer matron. There is no elite. I feel that magic at the café every time I step through the sliding glass door. The island is the only necessary connection. Being an islander—whether year-round, summer, permanent transplant, or indigenous—levels social, financial, and ideological playing fields.

  And to think that for the first forty-seven years of my life I knew Black Dinah as merely a lump, in fact a poor excuse for a mountain among a few others that cast rather short shadows on Isle au Haut or High Island. Now this relative pimple and its name denote something monumental indeed. Black Dinah is the result of a dream pursued. Hard work, perseverance, passion, and raw talent compose the entire business plan. And the chocolates … The chocolates are the perfect reflection of their creator. They are simply the best. Yes, this June was special indeed. And June quickly made way for July 1, the beginning of one of my favorite months.

  Saturday was donut day at the café, and I knew I would need to arrive early if I expected to actually get a donut. Dave Hiltz and Bill Clark would be there waiting for Kate to get out of bed so that they could have coffee and a few of her homemade delights and get offshore before the troop of little boys (including Aubrey and Addison) showed up to clean out the display case. I wasn’t surprised to see both Bill’s and Dave’s trucks parked outside of the café. Nor was I surprised by the greeting I received. Dave looked at me while tapping his wristwatch. “Good afternoon,” Bill said, with his usual lighthearted sarcasm. Bill’s smile is infectious and his blue eyes hold a perpetual twinkle that hint of mischief.

  “Geez! Must be nice to write for a living! Remember when you used to have to fish? When’s the last time you were up to see the sun rise?” Dave’s teasing, yet well-deserved jab was delivered from under a ball cap that had seen its share of bait and salt spray. His black goatee was always well manicured, and added a slight sinister air to his constant, fun-loving complaints. Complaining was Dave’s way of communicating. That’s just the way he is. “Well, you’re not missing anything. Fishing sucks right now. But you’re not gonna catch anything if you don’t get out of bed!” July being typically one of the slower months of fishing, I knew Dave and Bill would have been offshore by now if they had good reason to be.

  “I’ve been up for hours,” I lied. “I’ve done a day’s work before you haul your first trap.” I poured myself a coffee, splashed in a lavish amount of cream, pulled out a chair, and joined my friends while I silently calculated how many days it had been since I had hauled my traps. I took a deep breath and inhaled the delicious smell of whatever Kate was concocting in the kitchen, which was hidden from view by a curtain hung in a doorway. I looked at the glass front of the large case that displayed a number of dishes full of chocolates so beautiful you’d hesitate to eat them unless you were familiar with how good they tasted. “What? Have you two eaten all the donuts already?”

  “No!” Hiltz replied. “They aren’t done yet. Kate is late!” He aimed this toward the curtain. “Come on, Kate! Linda is starving. She’s worked up an appetite at the computer.” Bill and Dave both chuckled at this while I shook my head and smiled.

  “We’re not open for another fifteen minutes,” Kate called from the kitchen.

  “Geez! What is it with you women? You’re keeping bankers’ hours. Or should I say writers’ hours?” Before Dave could continue, a large hand pushed the curtain aside and out came Steve with a platter of donuts that were still steaming. “Geez! It’s about time!”

  Steve is a tall and lanky man with big hair that was just beginning to show a bit of gray. He placed the platter on top of the display case and picked up the thermal coffee urn. Satisfied that the urn was not yet light enough to warrant refilling, he put it back and cheerfully said, “Good morning! Are you all going to the meeting tonight?” Isle au Haut’s town business is run by annually elected officials, one of whom was Steve. Steve was our first selectman of a board of three. It’s a thankless job that pays a small stipend, and one that I have been smart (for “smart” read irresponsible and noncivic minded) enough to avoid. Small-town politics can be as brutal as any. And when you know every voter, it’s difficult not to take things personally. Tonight’s function was not an official town meeting, but more of a casual get-together without an agenda, hosted by visitors from Maine Coast Heritage Trust and four members of our summer community. So Steve would attend wearing only the hat of a community member. Tonight’s menu was to be potluck, which means that everyone brings some food to share. Potluck is super popular on our island. I have yet to figure out why. I know that my parents would not attend, as they have a real aversion to joint-effort, buffet-style dining. But I figured I would go and give Mom and Dad the scoop the next day.

  Bill and Dave both agreed that they would also attend. We sat over coffee and discussed what we thought the “real” agenda was for the meeting, about which we had been told very little. What we did know was that a large tract of land known as Bungie Head, on the southern end of the island, was for sale. It was, at the time, very unusual for property to be listed for sale on Isle au Haut. The only new construction over the span of the last eighty years had been a handful of summer cottages built on family land, and there had been a few cases when a land seeker had approached a landowner privately to pitch a purchase deal. Land stayed in family otherwise. The town of Isle au Haut owns property to sell with the intention of increasing the year-round community. Although there are some strings attached to that community-building effort, it has been moderately successful. In fact, both Bill and Dave had purchased land from the town on which to build their homes. The word that Bungie Head’s two hundred acres, with two thousand feet of shoreline, were about to be placed on the open market was big news that some found disconcerting, while the endless speculation of possibilities tantalized others.

  We were in the midst of the “what if” game when Kate appeared with a second platter of donuts. “I think that most people are afraid of what could happen with Bungie Head,” she said. I was always amazed at Kate’s graceful presence in any setting or situation. She is always very together, welcoming, and just easy to be around. She’s a naturally very pretty woman who appears to put no effort into her looks. I don’t know if it’s her perfect posture, her disposition, her attitude, or what. But Kate is a real lady, whom most of us emulate. And her smile melts chocolate. “What if a huge developer comes here and builds condos? Or what if some wealthy single entity builds a McMansion? Either of those scenarios would do nothing to stimulate year-round growth, which in my opinion is what we need most.” And I suppose that was the crux of most of our concerns: how to propel the sale of land toward building the island’s community.

  “Yes, but either of those scenarios might employ year-rounders in construction and caretaking. That would be a plus,” I said. “It’s nice to think about how to grow, but what about jobs for those who are here and trying to stay? I imagine that piece of property has a big price tag. It’s hard to believe that Bungie Head could be purchased by anyone without intentions of commercial development or a plan for a h
uge estate. Besides, any construction would broaden our tax base. That’s another plus.” The five of us batted around opinions and ideas until Dave and Bill pushed themselves away from the table and the conversation to get aboard their boats and haul traps. Our coffee klatch discussions could go deep and broad with very little factual basis, especially those prior to a meeting of any kind. We often engage in light and harmless gossip when there is no other political intrigue to hash over. We would meet at the Town Hall this evening and have a lot more to talk about the next morning. Just as some other customers started to trickle into the café, I left to do some writing with the intention of getting offshore a little later in the day.

  Things are normally slow to change on the island, but one significant and conspicuous change has been that many of our staunch summer residents have begun to rent their places out when they don’t occupy them themselves. Where August and September are most coveted times for family vacations in Maine, July brings some unfamiliar faces as renters. While I recognized vehicles and knew with which cottage they belonged, I seldom spoke more than a cordial greeting with people who would only be here for a week and possibly never be seen again. Besides, it usually takes more than a one-week stay for offshore folks to get into the Isle au Haut groove. By the time renters realize that it’s okay to wave to total strangers when passing, it’s time for them to return to whatever city they hail from and continue the practice of keeping a close watch on the exact spot of the sidewalk where their next foot will fall. A small gaggle of renters excited by the rewards of donut day brushed by me as I left the café. It might be a rather sparse spread at the potluck tonight, I thought. Most renters would have no interest in Bungie Head.