1) Migration

The line of cars stretches well beyond the first bend in the road as I approach the ferry terminal.  Large cement trucks line up in the first half of the line, while shiny German cars with out of state license plates crowd the reservations area.  Dodge pick-up trucks make up the rest of the line. A circle of locals stands to the side, taking bets on whether their vehicle will make it on the boat or not. 

The sea looks calm and glassy, dark blue with no whitecaps in sight.  I watch as the ferry crew unties the massive Margaret Chase Smith, a sparkling white beauty in her heyday, now her hull is marred with rust stains and peeling paint.  As the long line of cars inches forward, I recline my seat and stare out the window. She only holds forty cars, less with the work trucks that appear all summer long. I won’t be going anywhere for while.  

The early morning sun shines on the east side of the bay, peeking through the blanket of fog that lingers over empty moorings and skiffs.  The lobster boats are long gone, and won’t return until well after lunchtime, their captains and sternmen convening on the float to weigh the day’s catch.  A family make’s their way down the gangplank to the dock, carrying coolers, canvas bags, and life preservers to unload onto their sailboat. 

The air is crisp and cool; dew covers the dandelions that grow along the road.  It will warm up in a few hours, but for now people wear fleece jackets over their pink shorts and polo shirts, their Wranglers and work boots.   

On the far side of the cove tall pine trees loom, their dark green branches weaving an impenetrable blanket  of dark, damp forest. A bird glides over the tree tops, coming or going from the morning’s first fish.  The bird is smaller than an eagle, larger than a crow. Its brown wings span three times the length of its body. Even in the distance I can make out its razor sharp claws and beak.  I know this bird well, but forty years ago they were almost extinct.  When Joni Mitchell opined on the dangers of DDT, she must have had the osprey in mind.

Like most Mainers, the osprey is tenacious and hardworking. Fiercely loyal, they mate for life and will protect their offspring to the death.  Nowadays many ospreys call the midcoast’s rocky outcroppings home.  They spend the best months here, arriving in early spring to comb the salt marshes and build their nests in preparation for new editions to the family. When the lupines and lilacs start to bloom, the chicks are born, hungry for fish and ready to learn to fly on their own. I watch as the osprey flies back and forth, surveying the water and stalking its prey.  It glides smoothly over the surface of the water until it spots a fish, then dive bombs abruptly, its beak and claws disappearing for a brief second. It returns to the nest fish-in-mouth to a harmonized chorus of “feed me, feed me!” When the air turns cold and the sea turns dark gray, parents and children alike know it’s time to head south for the winter. 

The boat should be leaving the other side by now, packed with construction workers and the mail truck, and an 18 wheeler full of groceries to be delivered to the general store. Later in the day the last straggling summer people will arrive, just in time for 4^th of July. Like the osprey, the ferry makes this trip back and forth, eight times a day delivering sustenance, in the form of food and supplies, news from the mainland, and business for this struggling fishing economy. Islanders, as self sufficient as they’ve grown to be, still rely on the ferry for reassurance, for a connection to the outside world.

The air is cooler today, the heavy fog absent. The dew forms tiny ice crystals as the thermometer rises in the early morning hours.  There are no dandelions, no lilacs or lupines.  The forest is dark green, with shocking patches of yellow and orange.  The wind blows, and the sea forms frothy white caps in the distance. As I come around the first bend in the road, the ferry line has dwindled. Seven or eight cars idle in the front of the line, their exhaust smoke rising and mixing into the gray air.  People sit in their cars, next to heaters and radios.  No one is taking bets today. All the plates say Vacationland, the out-of-staters left weeks ago, closing the shutters of their cottages, and draining their pipes in preparation for winter.  

As I drive onto the boat I see the osprey nest, empty in the distance. All month long the new chicks practiced flapping their wings on the edge of the nest before taking their first flight. They fished these waters growing strong and capable and finally, when the wind felt right they took off, embarking on a dangerous but necessary journey.

As the boat moves out of the pen and into the bay I look back at the island. Quiet and serene, the island is resting for another winter, the seasonal hustle and bustle suspended.  For now, most people are gone, most places are closed, and the ferry only has to make three trips a day.  I am leaving, but like the osprey I will be back next year.