Maine: A Walk on the Beach

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A Walk on the Beach

New Englanders don't have much use for excessive warmth, so when summer arrives they pack up and split for the nearest place that reminds them of a blustery spring day. Friday afternoons are spent drag racing toward the border and what seems like ten northbound lanes of the New Hampshire Turnpike. At that point the minivans and monster SUVs mash the gas even harder while the less privileged dump out at exits marked "State Liquor Store/Sweeps Tickets" and "Fish Canning Plant" en route to the crowded Portsmouth area beaches.

Following this blitz along the New Hampshire seacoast, the faithful find themselves packed into the three -- and very soon two -- lanes of the Maine Turnpike. Traffic will creep along for miles on three lanes of perfectly flat highway, then inexplicably jump to light speed at a construction zone. Here the bicycle and kayak-laden SUVs, minivans and RVs jockey with 18-wheelers for an advantage at 85 mph as they fly blindly over sharply pitched foothills on two lanes hemmed in by dense pines.

This madcap chase is slowed occasionally by Volvo wagons driven by permanently sober and sour-faced thin New England women with short graying hair and dour expressions, wearing sweaters. They trundle along in the left lane at about 55 mph, both hands locked on the wheel, eyes forward, oblivious to all around them. Their husbands are happy to be elsewhere or dead, so they are often accompanied by equally sober daughters identical but for slightly brighter sweaters. The wagon is packed with a variety of contents, frequently including one modest suitcase, wooden tennis rackets, a broom, groceries, electric crockpot, and bags of sweaters. I imagine that the reason they drive slowly is to delay people long enough to read their hopelessly local bumper stickers: Keep the Mall out of Lower Tidbury Meadow, Save the Old Village Pond, or similar obscure causes.

Heading north, Kittery and York are the first beaches, both noted for tattoo parlors and crowds of people who say "wicked" while guzzling cans of beer. Next is Wells, a sort of buffer zone, then finally Kennebunkport itself, in all its crowded mutations. This once quaint village holds approximately 93,000 vehicles on three narrow streets in a 1/4 mile square area, complete with one-lane bridges, blind alleys, a bazillion pedestrians, two tiny parking lots and no traffic lights. Here the monster SUVs, minivans and Volvo wagons drive around en masse in a desperate attempt to park and patronize the quaint stores, including, "Maine-ly Pizza," "Candles of Maine," "The Maine Sweater Shoppe," and others similarly named and pricey. Do not drive through this place on a Sunday afternoon.

The inexplicable appeal of Kennebunkport knows no political barriers, evidenced by the premier castle on the rockiest beach, occupied by the George and Barbara Bushes. This naturally creates a mass of sightseers and illegal parking near Walker point, much to the dismay of other local gentry. It was here in Kennebunkport that a younger George W. Bush was found driving under the influence; a scandal worthy of Martha's Vineyard but sadly -- in keeping with the Maine spirit of things -- with less sex and alcohol involved.

North of Kennebunk are a series of beaches with names like Goose Rocks Beach and Fortune's Rocks Beach. Further north you'll find Rockport Beach and Rockland Beach. I'm still searching for Rocky Rocks Beach where I'm sure a stoic New England woman is walking about in a gloomy sweater as you read this.

Her husband is probably somewhere near Miami. And let's face it, if she has a little slice of oceanfront, he won't be deprived. Hers is a weatherbeaten Cape Cod with a picket fence and a proper garden; the Volvo wagon is parked in the spotlessly clean garage. His is a Florida bungalow with a swimming pool and lots of filthy ashtrays and empty liquor bottles lying around, where curvaceous University of Miami co-eds jiggle about in thong bikinis. She looks forward to a brisk evening walk on the "beach," he looks forward to happy hour and topless cruises on his speedboat.

I've never seen a thong bikini in Maine. Not that I really need to, mind you, but it is the sort of thing that enhances a vacation. I can't recall many curvaceous co-eds for that matter. Neither fits the Maine way of doing things, which is best exemplified by the names people select for their homes. As you travel around the beach areas you'll notice that every structure, from the largest villa to the humblest cottage, is adorned with some sort of sign promoting a name the owner has christened it with. Each reflects a certain pleasantness with a healthy dose of New England restraint: "Seagull's Rest" or "The Maine Escape" or "Healthy Breeze" or some other pithy expression. I'm always hoping to find "Weekend Binge" or "Wild Naughty Nights." I'd even settle for "Reckless Abandon," which by itself would probably result in a new municipal ordinance.

Law enforcement is little needed in these vacation communities, and largely consists of people frowning at one another for even the slightest hint of impropriety. Being an obvious outsider with a general dislike for excessive rules, I've naturally experienced a couple of scoldings. On one occasion I wheeled into the parking lot of a nearby market, only to be treated to a whithering stare and repeated headshaking from a cadaverous middle aged woman hauling a bag of vegetables toward a Volvo. Since I do everything on vacation at half-speed, I still have no idea what indiscretion I'd committed. Perhaps I reminded her of her overindulgent ex-husband.

On another occasion I was motoring along a coastal byway during a rainstorm. Just after a splashing SUV flew past me in the opposite direction on a particularly narrow section, I came upon an older woman wearing every raingear item LL Bean ever made and walking a very plain looking dog. Noticing a rather large puddle in the road, I slowed --then came to a stop -- to avoid re-soaking the old bat. She turned and began screaming at me: "Slow down! Slow down!"

My favorite episode as a bad boy occured at a popular bistro. Because it is located adjacent to a wildlife refuge, it has a bird-watching log for patrons to memorialize rare sightings. After thumbing through a few pages of excessively earnest entries, I was compelled to note my good fortune of spotting the seldom-seen Black-speckled Shrieking Wintersnout, Spicegirlus chillywillius. Then I ordered ice cream, a Moose Maine-ia Sundae or something like that. I was kidding -- they were serious. Mainers would sell lobster-flavored ice cream if they could; I bet they've tried.

Each of these characteristics, however strange, contributes to the charm and quaintness that makes Maine special. If group rental houses, keggers and boardwalk bars -- the de rigeur of the Jersey Shore, Ocean Cities and Virginia Beaches of the world -- were to suddenly appear, the charm would be forever lost. Yet without some of the present trappings, it would just be one giant Acadia, which would then be less special as a result.

These quirks aren't really inherent to Maine, but a result of the people and culture thrust upon it. People are also to blame for the only real ugliness on the coast itself. It never fails that when I am clamboring over cliffs and enjoying the thundering surf in Acadia, or Twin Lights, or almost anywhere, I happen upon something that abruptly ends my joyous pursuits. I'm referring to the rare but irritating "NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT" sign. Call me a closet communist, but anything as beautiful as the coast of Maine should not have been for sale, or at least should never be closed to the public. Imagine if an individual "owned" the Grand Canyon or Old Faithful. One would hope they would want to share it rather than shut everyone else out. The majority, of course, understand their sacred trust and do not mind if people walk along their "private" chunk of coast. (Knowing the New England mentality, they probably accept this in return for the pleasure of scolding people).

Just as we have public pathways to enjoy the full extent of our mountain ranges, we ought to have a complete coastal right-of-way. A kind of Appalachian Trail at sea level. Entry points would need to be somewhat limited, as the family members/homeowners I know should not be subject to having grungy hikers tramping across their lawns. But the coast itself should be public land. (As I write this, President Clinton is making his final federal land grab, setting aside millions of acres in the west as National Monuments, which is good for the country indeed. I only wish he had come up with my coastal trail idea, because I doubt the Bushes will be amenable.)

It is of considerable solace that the few miserable Mainers who posted the signs in the first place are dead by now. Nobody remembers them or cares, except their equally miserable offspring, who perpetuate the crime. Someday they too will be dead, and the universe will no longer swirl around them. Eventually, perhaps 200 years from now, the last old spinster will die alone, leaving a rotting Volvo and a sagging home on the coast. With taxes overdue and no heirs to claim it, the home and precious coastline will revert to the public trust where children (and more importantly, myself) will then be free to pick wild blueberries, chase lobsters and collect sea glass. One can only hope.

Many aspects of Maine life are inexplicable. I've spent hours at various docks and piers, watching the fishing boats and lobstermen going about their business. They fill up their fuel tanks to the tune of $200., then chatter off to sea, while I envy their freedom and the sheer joy of working in such a refreshing environment. This is always in July or August, occasionally September, with warm sunshine streaming down on the scene. As I stand there, basking in the sun, admiring the spirit and adventure of their chosen profession, I seldom consider how much less fun it would be in mid-February.

While some of the salty dogs are headed out, a few weatherworn boats splutter in to unload the morning haul. In all my visits since 1970 I've yet to see one bring more than a half bucket of lobsters and a few small fish. Considering the reasonable cost of local seafood, I estimate the average wholesale value of every haul I've ever seen to be about twelve bucks. How do they pay for bait, let alone the fuel, or anything else for that matter? I once stopped at a local store for a loaf of bread and a newspaper, which set me back $4.22 (at the time, $1.79 elsewhere).

If you ever figure out how they manage to scrape by, please let me know: I will immediately leave my dreary desk, grow a beard, and purchase a leaky boat.

Aside from seafood and tourism, the major industry seems to be some sort of shady government-sponsored traffic in returnable cans and bottles. Stores charge incredible fees for the privilege of taking liquids away in reasonable containers; this always seems to add significantly to the grocery bill. From time to time I inquire about refunding these usurious fees, and I'm always told to visit a "redemption centah." These redemption centers are apparently found in every other home, run by old timers in their garages. They're never open...I've peered in dusty windows and stared at thousands of empty cans, but I've yet to return a single specimen.

I've given up. I'll pay the beverage ransom and be done with it, and I won't be deterred. I'll rub fenders with the Volvos on the Maine Turnpike. I'll cut my feet on sharp rocks at frigid beaches. I'll pay five bucks for a loaf of bread, and order ice cream named after a crustacean. And I'll enjoy every minute of it.