Yesterday a fog rolled in. It covered the coastline with a big, cold, damp, blanket. I went for a drive.
Waaayyy down the coast, I stumbled across this little lighthouse. To see it, you have to make your way down this long, long spit of rocks, a mile out into the harbor. The sign in the parking lot warns you what you’re getting into. PEOPLE HAVE DIED ON THE BREAKWATER RIDGE it tells you in all capitals, in no uncertain terms.
Well. I thought that was a tad dramatic. But it is sort of dicey walking, especially in a damp fog. You step out onto Breakwater Ridge, and you can barely see the lighthouse a mile away, past those little tiny people. You walk.
And you walk some more, and realize that it doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. Also, it’s much, much colder out here on the water than it was in your car. You keep walking.
You walk positively forever. You bobble your Iphone once, but whew, you caught it. You bobble your footstep once, and you envision being that hiker that got stuck in a rocky crevasse and they make a move about you which you can’t watch, because shudder shudder shudder, you know how that story ends. But you’re fine. You keep walking.
You get sqwawked at by a gull, but you keep moving, long after you stop being able to feel your ears in the whipping wind. And suddenly, you’re there.
You walk around it, and climb the steps, and sit on the landing out of the wind, and enjoy looking back at the land down that long, long spit of rocks. And when you leave the lighthouse, the wind is at your back, and you’re a thousand degrees warmer, and you feel like you’ve seen some things.
Today, as I broke camp and drove towards the airport, this is what I saw:
sunshine, and seventy-five degree balmy weather, and gentle breezes, and the ocean like glass. I reiterate, this blue-sky gift is presented to me on the way to the airport, after seven days of camping and hiking in nor’easters and intermittent soaking showers. Oh, Maine Maine Maine.
I am coming back next year.