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Day 187 – Thursday, April 12th, 2012

“Slipping Into Spring”

Fog doesn’t always “roll in”, as it is usually phrased.  Sometimes it slips in, slides in, slinks in and slithers, laying low to the ground, not even reaching the tops of the storied Maine pines that have secured a long term residence on the craggy shore of the passage that lies between this island, and the Bold Coast, on one’s way to the picturesque, and working, Cutler Harbor.



It is decidedly cooler than the 50-degree air that has lain here most of the day.  Probably by 10 degrees.  But she snuck in.  Unannounced and without invitation, although certainly not unwelcome.  Her all-blanketing presence is a sure sign of spring.  Fog and Sea Smoke.  Cool.  Wet.  Wispy.  Wafting.  A Drifter.  Grifter.  Grafter.  Gripper of all in her path.  Mother and Thief at the same time.  Stealing from me, and gifting me in the same moment.  Grey can have so many shades.  In vision, in life, in morals and ethics, and judgment.  Gray.  Comes in nothing but shades.




And in an instant, first suspected while sitting in the middle of this island, on the phone, with a squirrel quite surprised to run further than he or she might like or intended, only to find themselves suddenly upon my resting and quiet feet, She descended milkily through the forest where I first thought it was my clouded eyes, but the chill that accompanied the blur and distance said otherwise.





My walk back to the Keeper’s House and Tower began to become clearer, and more veiled at the same time.  Spring Sea Smoke was making its first visit.  Not a hanging, but a passing through.  Made more striking by a steadily streaming sun overhead, determinedly playing upon the enchanted forest of rich green growth, highlighting waves and mirrors, walls and fronts, doors and windows.  The waves, although unseen, are heard, crashing against the three home-sized rocks that sit off this front yard, water bound and covered, twice a day by the ocean, and make up my extended daily view.  Pounding.  A white noise that ebbs and flows.  Rhythm.  Rollers today.  Rollers without wind.  Like a distant thunder.  Like tuning into a radio between stations, and turning the volume up and down, over and over.

This is Elphaba Thropp’s Island…





And my view of the Bold Coast…





A plane.  Small.  White.   From the Village dirt and grass strip that passes for tarmac, criss-crosses, three times over this little rock of an island.

I imagine he waved.  I did.

Back in the living room of the Keeper’s House, French pop music plays on my retro-looking radio.  The grayed, tandem Adirondack chairs remain on their back on the lawn, my becoming accustomed to seeing them that way, in that position, and the grass becomes greener by the hour.

Traps were set this morning, between 4:30 and 9:30 am for the most part, and the VHF radio chatter continues to buzz more frequently.

I drift in and out of sleep during these hours, conscious and not.  Slipping in and out, like the Sea Smoke and Fog.

The sea has become a muted and heavy, laden blue.  Capped with white whipped cream.  Here and there.  Coming and going.  Appearing and disappearing in seconds.  Only to show up somewhere slightly else.  A moving, fluid, momentary vision.




Thunder.  Waterous thunder.  Pounding.  Hurtling and hurling itself against a hole, a vacancy, an opening in the rocks created over hundreds of years.  Rock formations that are peppered with a variety of sea birds and capped with a dried and yellow fauna that the tide never quite reaches, although it tries, twice a day.

The grass, which probably should have been cut one more time last autumn, is now moppy-like, as is the marsh.  Moppy-like.  I found an odd “plant bud thing” today, on the lawn.  This is it.  Also moppy-like.  And another amazing God-Gift.



Running into the Village I was met on the wharf by the now familiar sight of loading.  Traps.  Off of trailers and trucks, and onto fishing boats.  I spent about an hour helping move them into the on-deck stacks, six-high and packed across, where they would sit until thrown out to sea, at dawn tomorrow.







I hoped to help in that too, and was lucky enough to do so this morning, aboard the F/V Avery Grace.  (more on that in the next post).




The field burnings continue to scar and blot the landscape, blackened ink spots, as if spray-painted, some blueberry fields and some just expanses of open space, with controlled borders that defy my understanding.







Our prayers go out to Jo Corbett, and those that care for her.  And I am deeply grateful for the lovely care package I received from Epona, Carole Savage.  Time and caring, of others, from others, continues to amaze me, every time.

A random shot of my glove…






And buoys, balloons, and rope…








Thanks for reading, sharing, Liking, and supporting.  The horn still sounds, and this Light remains bright.  Good Enuf.


3 Responses to “Day 187 – Thursday, April 12th, 2012”

  1. Tim Harrison says:

    For those of you who don’t know who 93-year old Josephone Corbett is, who is mentioned in Bill’s post, her husband, Purcell Corbett, is the last surviving child of Willie W. Corbett, the last United States Lighthouse Service keeper at Little River Lighthouse. When the Coast Guard took over in 1939, Corbett joined the Coast Guard, this becoming the first Coast Guard keeper at Little River Lighthouse. He served in the Coast Guard until his retirement a few years later.

  2. Anne McGhie says:

    How clever to site Elphaba on Western Head itself – a place she would have sought out eagerly and likely never left… Your prose becomes increasingly vivid and offers a true vision of this remarkable place and its folk. Thank you and God bless.


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