It had been years since I’d been ferried by ferry in fair weather. The fourteen square mile island of Isleboro, Maine sounded just like the type of scarcely populated island we could explore at our leisure without bumping into people. Now, we both like people. But we all know that sometimes we need a respite from all the peoplely-people, and we sought out as many off-the-beaten paths as possible because those were the destinations that excited us most. Isleboro was exactly that.
The residents and visitors of Isleboro ferried to and from Lincolnville Beach. It was amazing that, with creative strategy, thirty-plus vehicles fit onto it, not to mention several hundred people on foot.
On the way over we could get out and enjoy the trip because there were only a few cars. On the way back, we were sandwiched close enough that a claustrophobic person might have panicked.
The picturesque Grindle Point Lighthouse was the first sighting from the sea. I got so excited snapping photos that I didn’t hear the ferryman asking me, oblivious at my boat front perch, to please give him room to prepare to dock. I’m not sure how many times he asked me. I guess I understand a little why my children don’t hear me when they’re excited.
We found a little-used back road and thought that that one might be the one for us. It surely was. Our draw to Maine was the craggy shoreline and everywhere we went, whether hiking or driving, was always as possible to where mountain met sea. A truly spectacular experience to hike through evergreens elevated by jagged cliffs, and to hear seagulls and glimpse the ocean below. We pulled over often on that gravelly back road.
If I blur my eyes, I imagine this scene as an old oil painting created by one of the past generations that left most of these island summer homes to family.
A glimpse of the corner of one such estate. I wondered which of these summer homes both John Travolta and Kirstie Alley called their own vacation homes.
Our Airbnb host recommended packing a picnic lunch since there is only a deli on the island. We found a quiet grassy spot for my cucumber sandwich and the man’s nitrate-laden manly sandwich. I balanced my meal with a glass of jarred Starbucks frappucino. Living loose. We saw no moose.
Instead, we watched these people prepare to go boating from their waterfront property and imagined what kind of jobs or bloodlines these boaters had. Chomp. Chomp. Sip. Sip. Probably with no similarity to ours.
No matter. Every moment on this little island was a little piece of heaven. Quoting Arnold Schwarzenegger on some movie I watched in another lifetime….”I’ll be back.” (Please use the accent if you know it.)
Saint Mary of the Isles was built for the summer help that catered to the wealthy summer families. If I lived on the island, I imagine I likely would have been employed cleaning toilets for the wealthy landowners and then I would have attended mass here on Sundays. The closer gap between classes today does have its advantages regardless of how far back the long fascinating history of Isleboro travels. In August, 1692, English Captain Benjamin Church chased off both French men and Native Americans. A Church Brat. He did collect a large quantity of beaver and moose pelts though, so my disappointment at seeing no moose on the loose is not so far fetched.
We missed that sweet ferry by one car. The lineup was early for the departure time we wanted, so being that we were the first car for the next departure and the lighthouse was located beside the ferry dock, we explored every bit of the Grindle Point Lighthouse and museum. The original was built in the 1850s and rebuilt about 30 years later using the same foundation. To go to the glass top of this rare square-shaped lighthouse, you had to go down into a basement where we saw many ancient sailing artifacts including the compass pictured above.
I laughed out loud, in that musty old basement, as I found the irony in this story. Proof that, regardless of the times, people had and will have the same relationship challenges. The museum keeper was a retired librarian and historian who shared the history of the school where she had worked for many years prior as a librarian. It is a public school, previously a summer house that was donated by a wealthy benefactor so it had bathtubs and fireplaces amidst classrooms. A 2018 graduating class of only four seniors, two being female graduates headed to Yale. I thought that the teacher-to-student ratio is probably more important than I had imagined. She probably never met a young-ish couple before that asked so many questions and seemed so old-ish. It was so fun.
Waiting on the sun-soaked rocks for the ferry, I saw this lady that appeared to be in her 70s must have had the same idea. She snored softly but somehow awoke and was in her car waiting to board the ferry before I was. Summers in Maine suddenly felt like a blissful way to grow old. 
The ferry is coming! Back to Lincolnville and life that is dictated by clocks, watches, and cell phones. Isleboro felt like a journey to a little land where time had no meaning. For us, we had traveled back in time to a little piece of heaven.
Next stop: The Rockland Breakwaters