Full moon over Popham

WEEK 17

Looking out the airplane window on the descent into Portland, Maine, I saw green. So much green. The tree canopy dense as a weighted blanket. And so much blue — that deep-water shade of blue. Lakes and inlets and watery fingers of all shapes and sizes. It was a spectacular mosaic of unpopulated earth, with ridges of camelback mountains lining the west and glimpses of ocean to the east.

I was headed to Popham Beach to celebrate the marriage of two friends. A perfect “first” for me along the rugged coast of this vast state.

On my drive north from Portland up US1, I had expected to hug the shoreline (much like on California SR1), but during the 50-mile drive, I saw only quick flashes of water. Maine’s coastline, certainly in this central part of the state, is defined by numerous tentacle-like slivers of land reaching into the sea. Did you know that Maine has the fourth-longest coastline after Alaska, Florida and Louisiana – and if stretched out, would easily cover the entire length of the Atlantic coast and then some? Nor did I. The shoreline-to-people ratio in Maine must go to infinity.

Making up for the lack of water on the drive were trees. Stunning trees in all directions. Riots of green from pines, spruce, fir and hemlock with an occasional leafy tree showing a hint of fall red. And when I did happen upon a watery inlet, the trees were right at the water’s edge.

I arrived in Popham on Friday the 13^th, under a full moon no less, adding to the already abundant natural beauty. I met the group for dinner at a lobster shack and peppered the locals with questions about the region, summers on the beach, the tides, their favorite spot for oysters. I even learned some fun Maine trivia: The length of coastline fact I shared above … that Maine is the only state bordered by only one other state (it’s New Hampshire) … that 90% of the nation’s lobster supply is caught off the Maine coast. And get this: Maine produces 99% of blueberries in the US.

It was quite late when we made our way back to the beach cottage that would be our home for the weekend, and I promptly ran barefoot to the shore, delighted to find such soft, powdery sand. In the light of the moon, one of the locals pointed to a rocky island off shore and explained that at low tide you can walk there. When is low tide, I asked? 5:00 pm Saturday was the reply—and so the plan was hatched for all in the party to have a bit of adventure after the ceremony.

Saturday we woke to an overcast sky and a rather relentless wind from the Atlantic. I took a long walk south along the beach and found myself directly across from Fox Island, our low-tide target, a bit skeptical that we’d be able to walk out there this evening. But always trust the locals, right?

The early afternoon ceremony was lovely and moving, despite less than ideal weather, but it was a setting fit for Maine and, as the couple exclaimed, “We like the gnarly.” Later at the cottage, we got warm and dry and filled up on lobster, champagne and blueberry pie.

Around 5:00 pm, a couple dozen of us shook off our food coma and set off for Fox Island, including our celebrants still attired: a black Celtic kilt and lace-up boots for him, and for her, a beach-length cream lace dress with sneakers.

As we approached the island, I was astonished how far the tide had receded. The beach had tripled in size, the retreating waves revealing a crescent-shaped sandbar with perfectly firm grains of sand for walking. Just five hours earlier, the waves were crashing helter-skelter into this then-hidden sandbar.

We climbed the rocky island and stared out at the angry waves of the Atlantic crashing below, the water being sucked down like a flushing toilet. At the island’s summit was a plaque dedicated to a high schooler who had drowned here in the late 1960s. It’s no surprise that nature owns this place.

When we arrived back at the beach house, I studied the tidal map on the wall and found the spot we crossed. It was so miniscule that I had to blink a few times to process. Water and land so vast it seems lifeless, though I know it’s not. It’s trying to figure out where our human size fits into this rhythm. The moon and the tides gift us a sandbar, then take it away. And they’ll do it again tomorrow.