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Perfectly Fine Either Staying Put or Going Over to Maine

by Eva Murray

Editor's Note: This story was submitted before social distancing changed how we move about responsibly.

People who live on islands make a hobby of boasting about their insular bona fides. On line (as opposed to online) at the grocery store, the full-time offshore island resident will often find themselves queued up behind and chatting with some stranger who mentions that, “My grandmother was from Vinalhaven,” or “My boyfriend used to fish Criehaven” (or “My boyfriend’s brother’s ex-wife’s uncle fishes Criehaven.” Most everybody on the coast of Maine has some connection to Criehaven if you look hard enough. The game is Six Degrees of Criehaven.) Criehaven, it should be noted, is not a very large community.

I was going to add that the exception to the Criehaven thing might be me. Neighbors from back when I lived in South Thomaston, folks perhaps distantly related to my grandmother, have Criehaven property although that’s not a direct connection. But recently one of the Criehaven fishermen decided to retire, and by coincidence sold his property to an Owl’s Head fellow who, as it happens, is a cousin of my daughter’s fiancé. So, let’s see…

Anyway, the braggadocio about islander-ness sometimes takes the form of comparing notes on how long it’s been since one’s last trip “off.” References to “going to America” or “going to Maine” or wink-wink-nudge comments with a smile about “The Rock”—and the subsequent eye-roll and groan of others who are sick of hearing the same—serve to establish one’s place in the pecking order of committed islanders, meaning those who avoid the crossing for an admirably long time. This is not, I should add, an attitude reserved for island natives. In any case it’s a point of pride not to leave too often.

An island home is a refuge for those who not only admit to but proudly declaim how much they feel hurried, harried, hassled, and generally imposed upon when they have to go to the mainland. On the island, life is easier—or so they say. I must be the oddball. I love this island for many reasons, particularly in winter, and am grateful to be accepted at least most of the time by most of the regulars—but “getting away from it all?” That’s a myth. I would be willing to bet that the other eight or ten people who stay on Matinicus through the cold months and who engage in the Public Works don’t see this place as an escape from reality, either. If it snows hard, somebody has to go plow. If somebody gets sick, others must respond. If a tree falls on a power line, if the mail, if the phones, if the ferry, if somebody’s wonky heater, if the wind, if the plumbing, if the folks in Augusta make a demand on our time—we go to work.

You get the idea. Island residents are not on year-round vacation just because they don’t have to pick up any dry cleaning on the way to soccer practice. I’ve sputtered about that stereotype before. A lack of drive-thru latte stops and parking meters does not render a place unreal. No pink ponies, no unicorns.

Commuter islands have their own issues and I have no expertise therewith, but let me toss out that no matter how much teasing Peaks Islanders may get about “not being a real island,” it’ll feel like a real island if you’re taken sick at 2:00 a.m. in a snowstorm and you’re huddled up in a blanket on the Portland Fireboat.

As someone who has no reason to resent the mainland in the abstract, possesses a driver’s license in good standing, and is aware of no bench warrant out for her arrest, I have developed a pleasant sense of neighborhood in a couple of mainland towns. On this island you cannot hang around the coffee shop or the little restaurant on the corner, doing your paperwork over a steaming mug or a plate of steak and eggs, and chat with acquaintances and committee-buddies who may pass through, because we have no coffee shop*—but Rockland does. Likewise, Belfast has become another home-away-from-home in a sense. I learned to fly mostly at the Belfast Airport, and I’m a member of Waldo County SAR, which trains in the area, and I find myself there a lot. I like to shop at the Aubuchon Hardware store and the Belfast Co-op. I see some Belfast health care providers. I’m a member of the library.

Back—hmm—almost 40 years ago now, when I worked in the sardine plant I didn’t feel any affection for Rockland. I do now. I might laugh at the gentrification and wonder just exactly how many art galleries per block a tiny city requires, but there are still plenty of guys in hauling boots and hoodie sweatshirts moseying down the sidewalk. Rockland Main Street is a place where I feel like I belong, at least in the winter, in the daylight. Even some of the cops say hello. There are luxuries to be had on the main (or “in Maine,” as a few wags around here like to put it,) draft beer and ice cream cones among them. I am grateful for places to hike, fly, skate, sing, and go out to eat. You don’t take stuff like that for granted when you live out to sea. Rockland and Belfast are small enough that you can be a regular customer somewhere, and be greeted by name by folks who might ask, “Did you just fly over today?” or “Are you rushing to catch the boat?” I may be rushing because I have to, a schedule to keep or the weather shutting down, or my responsibility for a freight truck on a twice-a-month ferry, because I live on this island and nowhere else—but not because I hate the mainland. I’ll leave that bit of authenticity to others.

*Despite what was suggested in LAST April’s column, which ran for April Fools’ Day and which readers might enjoy. Find it in this newspaper’s online archives.

Eva Murray is the Recycling and Solid Waste Coordinator for Matinicus Island. Eva’s last lobster license was dated 1990, the year her son was born, and cost $53.00, which at the time she thought was an awful lot of money.