I think if I had to live in a shack on the ocean, it might as well be here. I mean if I were forced. If I were held at gunpoint. If a masked bandit said, “Live in a shack on the ocean or die now,” I would accept this paltry shack. Oh, what a sacrifice. Oh, what a travesty.
|In pursuit of Maine on the ocean . . .|
Imagine how awful it would be: Brilliant sunshine, thick and magical fogs, the cleanest air possible, fresh fish to eat every day and lobster, too. Imagine waving to boaters as they lazily drifted by and folks paddling in kayaks and even brave swimmers. Picture the burden of finding sea treasures on your doorstep every day: shells, claws, snails, seaweed, and sand dollars. Imagine your boredom at seeing the gulls and eagles and seals every day. Day in and day out. The same old thing. Imagine the drudgery.
And then, imagine to yourself, dear reader, that in reality this really is just a shack in Harpswell on the ocean in Maine. It’s not a house. It’s just an old shed where someone keeps some fishing and lobstering supplies and any old junk that no one else wants to look at anymore. And it’s just sitting there on this idyllic, heavenly spot, watching the world go by. The people they come, and the people they go. The shack remains.
But that’s Maine for you. Wild. Without pretension. How I fervently pray it will stay this way forever. If I have any say in the matter, it will.