A GIFT FROM THE SEA

Reflections from 1957

We left our New Hampshire offices mid-day Thursday and eagerly headed for Maine. I was quickened by the prospects of what lay ahead of us, a totally new adventure for me. My co-worker’s parents owned a summer home on North Haven Island, twin to Vinalhaven Island, approximately fifteen miles out to sea in Penobscot Bay, Maine. Her parents had suggested she invite me to join them for a weekend, an invitation which I excitedly accepted.

It was imperative that we arrive in Rockland, Maine in time to catch the last ferry going over to Vinalhaven and North Haven Islands. There was no time to stop for dinner so we had sandwiches packed ahead and coffee from our thermos.

“Do you get seasick?” my friend asked as she drove. “Seasick?” I replied, “have no idea, I’ve never been to sea.”

I would soon learn whether or not the sea would make me sick as we drove our car on to the ferry more than six hours later. A few miles out, this landlubber took to the seas like a pro, my tongue licking the salt spray from my lips, the sea’s winds blowing through my hair, and I stood in awe of the beauty of it all. My friend smiled as she glanced over at me standing near the rail; a smile of seeming relief and amusement. I smiled back, happy to have come this far without incident that bore the undesirable label “seasick”.

The summer home at North Haven was large, accommodating her large family. My scant memory of its interior is one of a very neat and tastefully decorated but rustic home, complete to visible rafters. The atmosphere was made for the red and white checkered tablecloths that covered a very long picnic table in the kitchen. The unpretentious living room was equally comfortable to curl up on the sofa, in a chair, read one of the many magazines lying about. Upstairs, double beds, bunk beds, cots, stacks of bedding piled high, the guest was invited to pick her spot and make her bed.

In the morning, we awoke to sunlight streaming in through our windows. Today, we’d discover North Haven and Vinalhaven Islands. The scent of breakfast being prepared was followed by a call from mother to join her. Over freshly ground and brewed coffee, Mom shared with her daughter all the latest island news and gossip. She also had a way of including me in the conversation that had no relevance for me but such was her gracious manner.

It was 1957 and among other tidbits was the news that kept the island buzzing for a long time. Ferdinand Waldo Demara, alias Martin Godgart, who was later known as “The Great Imposter” had been arrested at North Haven for “cheating”. He had claimed he came from Brooklyn and no one had checked his teaching credentials. He had endeared himself to students and parents alike as a teacher in the Island’s school. He involved the children in Sea Scouts, and other activities. He was so loved, that a contingent had gone from the Island into the court at Augusta where he stood trial. They went to plead for his release and return to the Island to teach their children. The court released him but only to leave the State of Maine and never return.

We toured the Island, driving around although cycling is the usual mode of transportation which we also undertook later. Vinalhaven is eight miles long with miles of paved roads. North Haven has paved roads but at the time, were mostly inland, nothing along the beach.

We took the 16’ boat out to tour around the island. This was also a new experience for me; although the waves at times seemed threatening, my friend seemed unabashed, encouraging me to relax. With a laugh she encouraged me to use the available large tomato can to scoop water that had entered the boat.

However, our boating would soon turn into a major struggle against a squall that whipped itself up fast. We were too far out to return to shore quickly or easily. The skies had turned very dark and the winds were whipping us about, causing heightening waves as it stirred and churned the waters. The sea had turned angry and dark before my eyes.

Water was now coming into the boat in a quantity greater than I was capable of scooping although working as fast as I could to lower the level while realizing I was losing. It was clearly evident the captain of this sixteen footer, however skilled, was now clearly showing stress and her “scooper” was nearing panic stage. At last, she steered us to calmer waters and we headed into shore, relieved to dock. She then assured me that the Coast Guard were just over there, pointing in a direction that seemed not too distant. Had we been thrown overboard or capsized, they would have come to our rescue! As they say ‘down east’, “Ayuh!”

Well, that night at the much anticipated dance, we met the Government’s “would-be saviors of the damsels dumped into the deep”. A group of them had a good laugh at our expense. They had the glass on us, watching our every move and claimed to be ready to rescue if need be but we were their entertainment that afternoon. This landlubber had been duly baptized in the Maine waters and was now ready to dance the night away as we did.

The next day was clamming day. When the tide went out, we donned the hip high rubber boots, grabbed the clam digger tools, the mesh bags in which to put the delicacies after we dug them, drag the bag and let them wash out. I found myself sloshing about in the muddy bottom of Penobscot Bay, sometimes face down having slipped and fallen into the shallow water pools that covered the mud. We were laughing uproariously, having a grand time, and digging where ever a clam would spout and bubble under the mud. We filled our sacks and by that time, happy to trudge back to the dock and remove the boots. We were quite the sight; tosseled, wet and stringy hair, mud smudged faces, our arms streaked with mud traces. Vanity had taken a holiday!

My first time digging them but clearly, I had no intention of eating those clams! I was raised to eat whatever I was served but how could anyone expect me to eat these creatures? Much to my horror, this was all there was for dinner! French bread and butter for those who wanted any and I was about convinced that would be my dinner!

Tubs of melted butter and tubs of clam liquor,water from the steaming used for bathing the clams, were strategically placed about the table. It was evident some type of ritual was unfolding. We were served large dinner plates heaped with clams! No one surmised my discomfort fortunately.

I stared at my plate not having a clue how to go about this culinary adventure. I stared a few moments too long. It became noticeable as I studied the actions of those around me, hearing, “Yummmmmmmm” first from one then the other. My friend began to laugh and asked, ‘Haven’t you ever eaten these before?”

It was unheard of in Maine not to have eaten steamers! Well, I opened one, bathed it, buttered it and placed it in my mouth. It was too big to simply swallow, I was forced to chew. Soon I could be heard joining the "ymmmmmm chorus", and adding, "Wow." I went through more than one plate of steamers at that meal and have eaten many bushel of steamers since.

After cleaning the kitchen, prepared to go out for the evening to a beach party for which plans had been made at the dance the prior night. It was agreed all would meet at the Morrow’s place for the party.

Well, the Morrow’s place was exactly that, The Morrow’s Place! -- the summer home of Dwight Morrow, U.S. Ambassador to Mexico, father-in-law of Charles Lindberg and father to Anne Morrow Lindberg. Anne had written ‘GIFT FROM THE SEA, completing it that year as I recall, while sitting on the beach where we were about to party.

The guys gathered twigs and wood, made a rock enclosure pit for the bon fire. They managed to have it glowing brightly when within minutes the estate’s caretaker arrived! Yes, our party time at the Morrow’s place was shorter lived than had been anticipated. However, nothing, to this day, erased the awe of this young woman, to have shared the beach of this fine writer, Anne Morrow Lindberg, much less the proud boast to have been tossed off the Morrow Estate! My one and only time of being tossed out of any place; therefore, nice to go in style!

We regrouped and located another party spot to carry out our plans. The nightcap on one of the most unique adventures of my youth would end too soon and it did.

Following a long night of sound sleep, we awakened late in the morning. We made a light breakfast. Today was to be another clam digging day; not just for the house but for me to take home a peck to my dad who loved them. I felt like a pro out there in my attire, managing the digger tool much more skillfully as well as realizing I was staying on my feet longer in my hip boots.

We managed to complete our task, return to the house, shower, pack and ready for the seven hour trip home. Admittedly, I didn’t want to leave and would have been happy to eat clams daily! We were career women and commitment called us both back to work on Monday.

As I stood silently on the deck of the ferry, my gaze remained fixed on the island that I was leaving behind, perhaps forever. It faded from view but not from memory.  It is filed among memories of those experiences
that enrich body, mind, and Spirit.