View from the Pier

When you get to the end of your rope,
tie a knot and hang on.
- Franklin D. Roosevelt, 1882-1945

Monhegan Island, Maine

On a chilly Columbus Day morning, my husband Tom and I caught the last ferry of the season from Boothbay on the coast of Maine for a day of exploration on the windswept slab of Monhegan Island, 11 miles out in the charcoal, choppy Atlantic.

As we motored out of the snug harbor on Balmy Days II, I looked back on a swirl of somber shades of gray and alabaster, the center of which was imbued with deep, rich color.  Bobbing in the silvery water were chunky fishing boats painted in shades of candy-apple red, hunter green, and sunny yellow.  Rimming the bay and extending into it were bleached wooden wharves, adorned with gleaming white pleasure boats.  Rising from the water’s edge were layered rings of faded clapboard buildings, anchored at the far end of the harbor by the graceful steeple of the town church. A swath of spruce embraced the scene at its outer edges and enveloping it all was a misty haze that left our cheeks dewy.

Looking ahead, we approached a series of small islands, the first of which seemed no more than a stand of tall pine trees rising from the water.  Just beyond the mouth of the harbor, a larger, rocky outcropping was barren of trees but home to a small lighthouse and its companion, a white, red-roofed house, above which an American flag whipped in the wind.  The overcast skies began to spit and we huddled in the cabin, steaming cups of cocoa warming our hands and sweetening the raw morning.  As we chugged further out to sea, the specter of a ghostly whale surfaced on the horizon—Monhegan’s silhouette, with its 150 foot headlands to the north sloping down to the waterline on the southern end.

The island’s name comes from the Algonquian Monchiggon for “out-to-sea island,” where Native Americans fished since Time Immemorial.  More recently, some believe that in the first century Vikings left runic writing on the rocks of neighboring Manana Island, and others say that Basque and Portuguese fisherman plied their nets here centuries ago.  Records first testify to a landing by Giovanni da Verrazano’s ship La Dauphne in 1525, whose log offers this sailor’s account:  “taking me into his canoe the Indian paddled from a place he called Sabino to the peninsula he called Pemcuit (Pemaquid) where he rested over that night, when the morning broke, I saw not far to seaward a great island that was backed like a whale.”

Subsequent European explorers included Martin Pring in 1603, Samuel de Champlain in 1604, George Weymouth in 1605 and Captain John Smith in 1614. Monhegan Island served as one of the New World’s earliest outposts, harboring British fisherman and fur traders.  It’s said that it was Monhegan traders who taught English to some of the Sagamore people—one of whom astounded the Pilgrims by boldly walking into their new village at Plymouth and saying: “Welcome, Englishmen.”

Monhegan flourished as a fishing and trade center but then spent decades caught in the crossfire as the English and French fought for control of the region.  According to The Moorings, in 1747 the island was sold for 10 pounds, 13 shillings to Shem Drowne, a Boston tinsmith who designed and built the famous grasshopper weather vane still seen today atop Faneuil Hall in Boston. After changing hands again several times, in 1839, Monhegan was incorporated as an island plantation—a governmental status that falls between township—or, unorganized territory—and town.

As we neared the island, the ferry skirted a breakwater, and pulled into the narrow channel between Monhegan and neighboring Manana.  As the captain gently glided up to the village pier, we saw a smattering of houses and inns along the water’s edge, all clad in weathered cedar shingles, save a maverick home painted in a vivid rebellious red.  De-boarding along with the handful of our fellow passengers, we immediately had the sensation of being transported not mere miles offshore, but to a mysterious isle untouched by the hand of time.  Indeed, Monhegan only recently installed its own source of electricity.  There are no paved roads here and only a very few vehicles.

Ahead of us lay a dirt road leading up a small hill.  As we started up its slope, to our right was a sprawling gray building; its front door hung wide open, and strewn in front of it sat a haphazard collection of mismatched suitcases.  We followed the wide path past a cluster of wizened and bent apple trees and an expanse of lawn where a half-dozen empty Adirondack chairs overlooked the harbor.   With the descent of fall, Monhegan’s summertime population of about 1,200, many of whom have been coming here for generations, had dwindled to the roughly 65 year-round residents.

As we poked around Monhegan’s palette of subdued earth tones, we enjoyed spotting curious and clever bits of artistry and splashes of iridescence peeking out from little nooks and crannies.

At the crest of the hill, a dash of color and whimsy caught my eye.  Atop a stake in the ground floated the cartoonish figure of a lewdly grinning fish, made of driftwood and hand-painted in cobalt and lime-green polka dots.

Around a corner, we detoured down to the shoreline.  The long finger of a rocky breakwater reached into the shimmering slate-colored water toward the granite bluffs of Manana Island.  Several sun-scorched picnic tables sat on a sandy patch of beach—on top of one, perched a pot of ruby red begonias, a spark of color blazing in a sea of gray.

Continuing our amble along the road that constitutes the village, we stopped at a small general store.  Inside, its front picture window was foggy with condensation, and strung with magical ornaments made of bits of wire and jewel-like pieces of sea glass.  On the sill were perched an assortment of different-sized bottles in milky hues of blue and green.

Passing the house next door, we admired a cascade of hot pink and deep violet morning glories that enclosed one side of its porch. On the railing was a tiny pile of small smooth stones that someone had collected and then left behind.

Further on, a blackened wood carving of a raven stood tall and proud in the glorious decay of what had been a luxuriant New England garden; big patches of black-eyed susans, cone flowers and butterfly bushes, now all past their prime, offered testimony to someone’s green thumb.

The island is home to an artist’s colony of international reputation that dates to the mid-19^th century; today, as many as 20 studios are open during the peak summer months. Jamie Wyeth is widely considered Monhegan’s most distinguished contemporary artist; among the many prominent painters  who have found inspiration here are Edward Hopper and Rockwell Kent.  The Monhegan Historical and Cultural Museum is housed in the old Lighthouse Keepers Cottage.

Just shy of two miles long and three-quarters of a mile wide, Monhegan has about 17 miles of trails, spread out over the two thirds of the island that is protected as a nature sanctuary. The preserve is overseen by Monhegan Associates, a trust founded in 1954 by the family of inventor Thomas Edison to protect the island’s “simple, friendly way of life.”

At the end of the village lane, we set off down a muddy trail through thick underbrush, which eventually opened up to a meadow, where we paused so as to not disturb two elderly bird-watchers intently peering through binoculars.  Drawing closer to Lobster Cove, we saw the wreck of the D.T. Sheridan scattered across the rocks high above the water—we could only imagine the fury of the storm that dashed her here, and wondered how frequent such displays of Mother Nature’s fierce power were here.  We made our way down the side of the granite cliffs to walk on outcroppings along the water, where the rocky surface and scruffy pines were reflected in the calm surface of tidal pools.

Evidence abounds across the island of how fishing and the economy are intertwined here—from the low boats in the harbor, to the stacks of traps dappling the landscape, and the tower of the lighthouse high above. From October to the beginning of June, fishermen harvest lobsters from the only lobster conservation area in the state of Maine.  The first good day after October 1st, when every local fisherman is ready, Trap Day marks the beginning of the lobster season around the island. The motto: No one goes until everyone goes. Neighbors help neighbors with repairs, gear and loading. Even an illness for one means respectful waiting for all.

On this smudge of land that is a beacon for those both rugged and sensitive, the Rope House stands sentinel.  Set along the dirt road that meanders through town, this weathered, gray-shingled structure has a roof the color of rust and, tacked to its sides, scraps of paper scrawled with messages.

In a recent note of his own, Peter Boehmer, who administers the “Monhegan Commons” website, shared the history of the building with me.  He told me its name comes from its original function, saying “The practice of loberstering requires a lot, I mean, a huge amount of rope.  Before newer synthetic rope, the natural fiber rope, while not in the water, had to be dried out and kept out of the sun to avoid rotting.  For more than a half century the outside of the building has served as a public bulletin board – where anyone could post ‘room for rent’ or ‘Need ride to NYC.’

The “fireside chats” of FDR, quoted above, contributed to his huge popularity. The first in this series of 31 radio addresses was held on the subject of public confidence and the banking crisis.  Roosevelt may well have viewed life as though he were swinging from the end of one rope to the next.  While he enjoyed a privileged upbringing and life on the world stage, he confronted many challenges, not the least of which being the Great Depression, world war and polio.

Almost without exception, when I am feeling at the end of my rope, it’s because people or circumstances aren’t cooperating with me.  Of late I had been emerged in such a relentless stretch, in which it seemed the very universe was conspiring against me.  As I sat to write today’s blog, I stared at the image above of the brightly-colored coils, feeling wound pretty tight myself.

In a moment of either exasperation or clarity, I decided to go for a walk.  I tugged on my boots and shrugged into my coat and set off at a vigorous pace on my own island of sorts here in Nahant, also a community of paint brushes and lobster pots.

As I trudged through slushy snow, I saw a woman heading toward me, walking her dog.  She and I seemed to take our constitutionals at the same time and crossed paths often.  Invariably, my chipper greeting got a begrudging grunt in return and today I sourly anticipated such an exchange.  As I reached within a couple of feet of her, she extended her arm and said in a loud whisper “Listen!”

Astonished, I complied, straining to hear what she was hearing, without success.

“It’s a robin!” she exclaimed.

And with that, she cracked a smile and sauntered off, perhaps without realizing she had just tossed me a much-needed lifeline.

For more images of Monhegan Island, see “New England” section of Travel Photos.

http://www.monhegan.com

http://www.monheganassociates.org