by Frank Perry
forgotten, especially thoughts about him.
The Island
John hadn’t been on the island for what, fifteen years? Could it be that long ago? He stood near the little shack beside the runway with his jacket collar turned up against the frigid wind. He remembered as a child that it was never warm when his father brought him out during the summer for their fishing trips. It didn’t look like the place he remembered when seen through a child’s eyes. But he’d never flown there with his father, they’d always come by boat, docking at the harbor. John’s dad would schedule a few days away from work to coincide with the boat schedule. Their trips were always 5 days long with the last day spent riding back to the mainland. They didn’t have the luxury of changing schedules, so bad weather or not, if the boat went, so did they. A nostalgic moment hit him, remembering the times spent here with his father. He couldn’t recall exactly how many trips he made with his dad, but they had been special times that could never be duplicated now.
His father had passed away a few years earlier. He’d been semi-retired at seventy-two and had pursued his dream of building a racing plane. That plane had killed him -- flying too low in rough terrain. John always felt his father was a natural craftsman, but also an adventurer. He’d been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and been shot down, walking away without serious injury. After the Army, he’d gone to college and raced motocross cycles. After marriage and raising John, his dad had tried other risky adventures. He’d climbed mountains, used mixed-gas scuba diving to extreme depths; he even tried sky diving. Taking chances was something his father always seemed to be doing, probably because he enjoyed defeating the odds. John speculated that in the end his father had gotten into a situation with an untested plane that he couldn’t control. There were no regrets; his father died testing fate one last time, living life on his terms.
John never related much with his mother. She was kind, but passive in his childhood. His father was dominating. His father and mother had a loving relationship; it was obvious to anyone that knew them, but his dad was always involved in John’s life and his mom was in the background. She’d developed early onset Alzheimer dementia which was most apparent after John went away. She’d probably suffered for years, but he just wasn’t aware, and his father never said anything. His father cut back on his work schedule and began substitute teaching to care for her. She had passed away before John finished his final combat tour in Afghanistan, leaving him with regrets that hadn’t gone away. That had been only a few months before his father died, and John tried to discount any rumors among his father’s cronies that he had crashed purposely. They all knew he was a good pilot, but, in all other respects, he was lost without his wife. John hadn’t been there for either of them. Without any other siblings, he couldn’t shed the burden of guilt for having joined the Navy and being away through all the difficult times. He had regrets about that time in his life, sometimes overpowering regrets, but he had been moving on. He now had a girl; at least he hoped he still had a girl, someone really special who was able to displace the darkness he could feel when he was alone. Now, he was alone again on the island, alone with only the memory of his father and all that it conjured in his mind. He was cold and getting wet from the mist.
It was getting dark on the airfield, and could rain at any moment. He was at the highest point of land with a clear treeless perimeter where the native spruce was cut back along the airstrip. Although it was only late afternoon, the distant sky was black wherever he looked. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he’d probably freeze, so he started walking toward the town down the island’s single gravel road. The “town” was about a quarter mile away at the harbor.
The smell; he remembered the smell of the harbor. It was exactly like he remembered the smell of the ocean, laced with diesel, boats and decaying sea life. The only really commercial enterprises were the lobster processing building that was silent at this time of the evening, a fuel dock, and a general store that also served as the post office and deli. There wasn’t even a bar or a hotel. He ducked his head against the cold mist and ground fog, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. As he got closer to the harbor, it looked as if there were about twenty boats moored inside the seawall, but he didn’t stop to count them. Lobster fishing was the only industry on the island. Town meetings were held in the basement of the non-denominational church, the only church on the island. If people wanted to socialize over a beer or something stronger, they could buy it at the store, then drink on someone’s boat or on the dock. It was a simple lifestyle, unique to the outer islands. It was perfect if he could be part of it for a while.
Matinicus Island has only about sixty houses: half occupied year round. Children can attend a small school house until eighth grade then go to boarding school on the mainland for high school. In past years there had been as many as six students across all grades, but the numbers were dropping. There were no street lights, no police station, and one old fire truck manned by volunteers. Most people were descendants of the original settlers from the seventeenth century. It has a unique closed society of distantly related residents. Nowadays though, most of the children moved away to the mainland after finishing high school or joined the military, never intending to live there again. Even some of the original fishing families were gone, returning by day with fast boats from the mainland and setting lobster traps in the island’s fertile waters, but no longer living in its isolation. It has a quaintness that appeals to visitors, but it’s quite different for those living their entire lives in the confines of a small pinnacle, rising out of the ocean. The community survived and perpetuated itself through a small number of kids who stayed or returned to replace their parents when they retired or died. A few vacationers had moved out to the island for a different life style, a much simpler life. But they would find it difficult to join the community without family roots going back decades, at least. Most of these interlopers moved back to the mainland after a few years.
Disputes did happen among residents, usually involving fishing grounds or personal matters that were handled between people according to local customs, sometimes violently. In this small encapsulated society, grudges didn’t last long; they couldn’t. If something persisted long, it would involve entire families, which, in turn, would divide the town. Social norms had evolved to protect this unique lifestyle and disagreements were usually resolved quickly out of necessity.
Technically, the island falls under the State of Maine for law enforcement, but historically, this didn’t mean much. There were no cops on the island. The few old cars and trucks weren’t registered or licensed. By and large, families went back generations in the confines of the two-square-mile island. It was rare that major conflicts erupted unless a stranger from the mainland decided to fish in the waters surrounding the island. When this happened, the outsiders quickly learned about local justice, sometimes with lethal results. John had learned, even as a kid, how to behave within this closed community.
He cringed from cold approaching the harbor. The general store was the only building with any sign of life. Most lobstermen went to sea in the predawn fog and returned by noon, exhausted, before the seas became too rough to work safely. Many had died over the years when the weather turned bad, which could happen fast this far from the coast. This time of year, with its frequent storms and angry skies, the boats often stayed in port, some retired until spring. Those that did venture out returned early. Activities on the docks involved off-loading the catch and then cleaning the boats and making repairs.
John held his gloved hand beside his face to shield against the biting wind. A quick glance at the harbor showed signs of life on only a couple of boats with lights glowing, probably to make repairs to engines or equipment vital to operate again in the morning. The only other light around the town was at the general store. One or two people could be seen inside through the windows as he stepped onto the covered porch.
&nbs
p; The ancient door creaked and a rough-looking middle-aged man turned to face him, wearing a faded plaid shirt and patched bib overalls. An elderly man behind the counter was also wearing plaid, faded jeans, and a discolored white apron. Looking around the store, it was as John remembered it from years before. Both men stared at him as he entered without speaking. Most of the inhabitants came from three or four original settlers from centuries past and all knew each other; John was a stranger. Tourism supported a small part of the economy, but it wasn’t the season and there were no rentals open. The lobsterman looked away and said something to the storekeeper then excused himself, passing John with an appraising look but no welcome. John just smiled and walked toward the old wooden counter, trying to avoid knocking anything over from the overstuffed wooden shelves.
“Can I help you?” The man behind the counter seemed genuinely friendly, and was certainly curious as to why a lone stranger dressed in mainlander clothes and carrying
