Today was LobsterFest in The Village. I didn’t know that beforehand — it was just luck that I went to The Village today instead of going to The Town — but I don’t think anyone in The Village knew it either. LobsterFest, like so many things in the smoky haze of Village life, seems to happen whenever enough people feel like making it happen.
Certain Native American groups have games that involve rolling a hoop along the ground. I’m guessing that they’d stop considering it a game if they had to roll a thirty-five-inch, steel-belted radial along a hypothetically paved road for several hours in the hot sun. As usual, during my long walk the other day from The Town back to The Stump with a spare tire, no one came along to give me a ride.
The USS Francisco has been sitting in the harbor, proud and resolute, for several days. Having hauled the office of the Canadian Ministry of Outport Management, Lower Maritimes, physically into the ocean — with the Deputy Minister of the Canadian Ministry of Outport Management, Lower Maritimes, in it at the time, Captain Bergman and his crew undoubtedly felt that they had delivered the last word on the subject of Canadian aggression on Grand Seal Island.
Previously, in Island Wars… Donovan Graham has been conducting interviews, meeting people, and poking his nose around Grand Seal Island. He’s a blogger for the Eastport Sun, and he’s covering a military showdown between the U.S. and Canada.
Earlier today, life was feeling good. The sky was the kind of clear blue that only Maine summers can bring. The tide was high, causing the boats in the harbor to bob in cheery ways and keeping the muck-stench of the low-tide stretches to a minimum. I was in an unusually expansive mood, full of energy and smiles. So I decided to swing by the Pop’n’Squeak to chat with Floyd. I figured that would cure me of any overly sunny emotions.
About the time the sun was rising, Meg-like, over the North Atlantic the other day, Archie chugged the Minnow past the sleeping hulk of the USS Francisco and on to the first of his lobster pots. With dozens of lobsterers cruising the Maine and New Brunswick coastline, each one dropping more than a hundred lobster pots in various bays and inlets, it could be hard to tell which is yours and which is your neighbor’s.
I had seen Jennie McCafferie around town from time to time. She was a friend of Meg’s, but she was different from Meg in a lot of ways. Meg is peacefully happy living in Grand Seal Island, hanging out on the docks or the handful of shops on Main Street during the summer, taking the ferry to the mainland sometimes for shopping or dinner, and generally enjoying being the daughter of the Mayor. But Jennie is younger and a lot more restless. Her light blue eyes jump around like the swallows that dart and cut through the air by the eastern cliffs.
The thought of taking part in the barbaric ritual of gleaning personal wealth at the expense of innocent creatures of the sea didn’t sit well with me. But I was curious about people who killed for a living and then showed up for church every Sunday promising the Lord they’d be good stewards of the Earth.
Summer, as beautiful and sweet and horny and damn near translucent as she is, is nevertheless completely off her rocker. She has slept with virtually every guy in The Village — including, I think, Floyd, although I haven’t had the courage to find out yet — and yet there are some things she won’t tell me. She won’t say whether she’s ever been in love, or whether she’s ever had her heart broken, or whether any of her many consorts has been crazy enough to propose to her.
I went down to The Village yesterday. The weather was still beautiful, and I was anticipating yet another time-wasting date with a silly amount of beer.
I pulled the Island Car to a stop near the south beach, clambered over the boulders with my six-pack in my hand, and found a small and sandy spot to call my own. I took off my T-shirt, made myself comfortable, and opened a beer.