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In a Storm – The Advantage of Smallness and the Anarchy
of Helping Out

by Eva Murray

Early on Sunday, Nov. 2, I flew toward Logan Airport in Boston on the red-eye from Seattle. As we approached New England and the faint brightening to the eastward, we entered the clouds. I’d seen this storm on the Seattle evening news the day before and, to be frank, expected to feel turbulence, which proved to be minimal. We landed in a pre-dawn rain, and as the sun came up, conditions worsened. Cape Air, the small air carrier that serves Rockland from Boston, and makes runs to the Massachusetts islands and a few other regional airports, was canceling flights at pilot’s discretion for high wind conditions—a wise move, to be sure.

A few hours later I climbed aboard the Concord Coach bus headed for Maine. As we left Logan, I saw hundred-foot strips of Tyvek and safety netting flapping horizontally over the streets in the gale, waving like wind-whipped flags from high-rise construction. Fat, juicy slushballs pelted the bus; they didn’t so much fall out of the sky as seem to be sailing in from across the street. At South Station, we picked up a solid load of shivering people for UMO and Bangor, with some headed yet farther north to Millinocket. I did not envy them the trip. They were not, for the most part, dressed for winter.

At Portland, I made a few phone calls and realized there was no point in continuing to Rockland. There was no way of getting to Matinicus, obviously, but there was also no place to stay. The power was out in most of the three midcoast counties, with my Knox County almost entirely disconnected. Hotels with electricity were full—again, obviously—and friends who had said in the past, “If you’re ever stuck on the mainland, come by my house,” probably didn’t mean “Come visit during a power failure.” I knew the location of a warm bed in Scarborough, and that would keep me out of trouble for the duration.

Something like five days later, Spruce Head would finally have the lights back on. Parts of South Thomaston, where my mom lives, always feel like they’re last on the list. The steeply tipped utility poles on Route 1 in Thomaston were all over the news. Ham radio enthusiasts who chat every evening compared notes about how long each had been without electricity. Coastal island communities which get their electricity through cables from the mainland also had to wait. Ferries, mail boats and water taxis carried Emera (formerly Bangor Hydro) and CMP workers back and forth, but it all took a while.

The power outage on Matinicus Island lasted about an hour and a half.

We have our own freestanding municipal power company, with one technical employee (lineman, station operator, master electrician, trouble truck, meter reader, parts department, diesel tank farm superintendent, dock flunky, magician, and institutional knowledge; years ago he worked for CMP). We also have a part-time bookkeeper and a half-dozen or so regular helpers who have a basic understanding of how things work, including safety. The advantages to being small really show up at a time like this: with only a few miles of line to patrol, downed trees can be found quickly. With so few residents, even a complete outage is hardly a disaster. Should the power be out a long time, everybody can find a place to go to get warm, and enough water pumps and refrigerators can be kept going with generators to maintain the lifestyle at less than apocalyptic.

I am not gloating, but I am proud, if that’s allowable, of how this tiniest of towns defies conventional wisdom again and again when things go wrong. The usual questions—from people on line in the store in Rockland, from friends checking in online from other parts of the country, from relatives who have never been here, from summer sailors who cannot imagine these places during mitten season--is that if things are rough on the mainland they are logically even rougher on an isolated island.

In many cases it is just the opposite: our community is small, and troubles are small, too.

Part of why we suffer less may be perspective. Some people here sort of enjoy a sense of self-sufficiency and don’t mind the physical labor required. Some find the storms and the constant background thrashing of the “leaden sea” a reminder of their island heritage and the many generations who came before (not that there are so many natives who stay the winter any more). Not to suggest that everybody has everything, but we as a group have generators and snowshoes; we have four-wheel drives and VHF radios and chainsaws; we have wood stoves and accessible dug wells and surplus food and it is almost a tradition here that every Christmas everybody gets another flashlight. We have no grocery store anyway, so no worries when that runs out of milk. We have no ATMs, gas pumps, or traffic lights anyway, so no worries when those won’t operate. What we do have is our own power company bucket truck, and that is a very good thing.

But there is also the anarchy of doing good. You see, here, unlike in most places, people can come out with their chainsaws and offer to help the power company. A road-clearing crew of “civilians” can be assembled and they, under the direction of the power company regulars and often the fire warden, take care of the mess in relatively short order.

A couple of years ago I was on the mainland the day after a major snowstorm. EMTs and firefighters all over the fine city I was visiting were shoveling out hydrants. I just happened to have, in my mainland vehicle, a yellow public-safety type coat with loads of reflective striping and a large metal snow shovel. I also had some spare time, as my mainland appointment wasn’t for a few hours. I pulled over to the first group I saw working around a hydrant, which worried them terribly. “Don’t park there!” They looked distressed. “I’m not parking!” I shouted up to them. “Would you like some help? I have a shovel.” “No, we’re not allowed to let you help. City policy.” They almost sounded like they meant, “Please just go away.” I have to admit, my feelings were a bit hurt, but that’s because I am spoiled and used to being authorized personnel around here. At the other end of town a couple of EMTs were shoveling another hydrant. I approached the crew at the hydrant in my safety coat with my shovel. “Would you like some help?” One of them happened to recognize me from an EMS training session we’d both once attended, so I guess I was alright. “Sure, if you want to!” they smiled. Being able to help made me feel good.

The islanders who offer to clear trees after a storm feel good doing it. Thankfully, we are not prevented by statute, regulation, or custom from helping out. I hope that never changes.