TRAVEL

The Journey is the Destination: Traveling to Maine's Coastal Islands

Bangor Daily News | July 15, 2004
By Sebastian White

PENOBSCOT BAY, Maine—We depart under crystalline blue skies and head out into the schooner-jammed harbor on a quintessential Maine morning. Our destination, an unspoiled island of battered beaches and century-old shingle-style “cottages” twelve miles out to sea, exists far out in the dense fog, beyond our view. It’s a tiny oasis that looms large in the consciousness of all those who have strolled down its picket-fenced lanes and inhabited its kaleidoscopic, wide-open spaces.

The hour-long journey aboard the state-run ferry service is still magical, even though we’ve made this trip hundreds of times over the course of our lives.

We eagerly make our way to the ferry’s upper deck and settle in for the voyage, taking in the salt-air smells of the sea, a warm and purifying departure from our busy lives in the landlocked city.

The vessel jostles and jives its way out of its berth, jockeying around boats and buoys and into the limpid, dark waters of the harbor. Rubbernecking as the ferry swings around an old cannery, awed passengers point and marvel at the simple nuances of the working harbor: the grimy fishing boats and their colorful crews, the ramshackle (but priceless) homes teetering along the shore, the animated arguments of a sailboat crew coming precariously close to the shore. Across the narrow channel, passengers on a ferry arriving from another far-off island in Penobscot Bay wave us a customary salute as we get underway.

Accelerating with fluid ease, we gently crease the water at 12 knots, slipping by the harbor’s stone breakwater and running alongside the last few rock-strewn islets before entering the unsheltered depths of the open bay. We crane our necks skyward to the widening panorama, an expressionist mirage magically unfurling before us and cast upon a horizon so vast and limitless it seems almost surreal. This must be paradise, we say to ourselves as we throw on our sunglasses and get a face full of salty marine air.

The ferry reaches further out into the bay.

In a few short minutes, the mainland has become a fading image, just a squinty-small panorama. Landmarks become obscured, rapidly blending into one another, melting into the densely shrouding fog. Only the soaring peaks of a seaside mountain range are dimly visible along the shore behind us, an awe-inspiring conglomeration fighting to retain some prominence while a mass of low-hanging mystery overtakes the dramatic landscape.

We lean over the deck’s brine-splashed railing and stare into the dark blue waters, heavy like petroleum, as the white and blue steel ferry glides effortlessly forward. Along the bow line, waves crest and fall, whooshing and hissing as the ferry’s massive engines purr through the water.

Straight ahead, a tall red and white channel marker bobs at the intersection of two shipping lanes. It clanks and gongs a familiar tune, a sign that this romantic “cruise” is halfway through, a sign that we’re almost home.

A fisherman comes along our starboard side in an impressively decked out vessel, a high-tech throwback to the not-too-distant past when lobsters and wealth flowed endlessly from these waters. Around his fishy boat, a flock of ducks and gulls gathers, swooping and swimming and being bothersome as he loads another trap with bait and lumbers it back into the sea.

And then, just as the mainland disappeared, a pair of islands subtly appears through a clearing in the fog. The water around us is shimmery green, the skies a chalky blue. The air, warmed by the islands, is heavier and warmer as we pull into the thoroughfare separating our idyllic island from its grittier neighbor.

On this distinctly Maine morning, the shore is flush with life: energized kids bound along a sliver of a beach, herons convene on an exposed ledge, and apple trees on a promontory shake in the soft breeze. Classically New England homes—all weathered, some with freshly-painted white shutters and a flapping American flag—dot the tiny coves and creeks near the island’s busy port. A few ostentatious homes linger on the fringes of the harbor, too, the result of a frenetic building boom in recent years—a blessing for the local economy, a curse for the island’s timeless aesthetic.

In the distance, around a narrow spit of land and beyond a long finger of a pier, the black pylons of the ferry terminal appear. We shed our windbreakers as we make landfall and prepare for this step back in time, to a Maine that is even less hurried than the one we left behind.

The (surprisingly) agile ferry snakes its way around lobster pots and alongside small sailboats with names like “Seaduction” and “Miss Behavin’.” Sliding into its berth, the boat grinds to a halt as reuniting friends and family wave a hearty welcome from the dock to passengers on board.

We make our way down from the upper reaches of the ferry and gather our things from the emptying cabin below. The whole village, it seems, has turned out for the excitement of the ferry’s arrival with its delivery of friends, groceries, and gossip, making it a bit of a struggle to slip through the terminal area.

Soon enough, we head up the hill along the main drag, past the field of lupines and the white clapboard church, then around the bend to our awaiting island retreat. After a journey so eye-popping and so emotionally rich, it’s hard not to think that the voyage to this special isle is as much a destination as the spectacular terminus itself.

ARCHITECTURE | BLOG | PHOTOS | WRITING | CONTACT | SEARCH | HOME

All content copyright © 2002-2007 Sebastian White | User Agreement