Down East Maine, Ya caaan’t geet theah from heah."

Down East (east of Bar Harbor by my reckoning) gets quiet after Labor day. The locals come out of hiding and enjoy their coast and towns as they were meant to be. They fish off the town breakwater, paint a picture of a local historic building, eat fish and chips, hoist sails and race, play the part of pirates, drink beer of course, and jaw. It’s a site to see, it is, and worth the long haul Down East.

This S. Carolina couple have ridden their Harleys to the four corners of the U.S., the Quoddy Head light their final one. (The four corners farthest west, south, east, and north, are in Washington, Florida, Maine, and Minnesota) Bettcha didn’t know Minnesota?

Corea harbor.

Eastport doins’

She wasn’t painting Turtle.

Eastport, eastern most city in the U.S. Don’t tell that to South Lubec, a bit to the east, but it’s hardly a city, but then most places Eastport wouldn’t be either. It is however, loaded with nice people, and fun loving too.

Pirate battle at Eastport. The good guys won.

This is a locals only spot a few miles out of W. Pembroke. Don’t look for it on a map, the roads don’t show. You might see it on a tourist brochure, but they don’t tell outlanders how to get there. “Ya caaaan’t geet theah from heah.”

The 22 foot tides (this is near the mouth of the Bay of Fundy) pour over a shoal between an island and shore and make standing waves and whitewater. They call it the reversing falls, and you can see it every 12 hours, give or take, going the opposite way.

It was so loud from our boondock spot a hundred yards from shore, that it woke me at 4am. I managed to crawl out by 5am and make this picture.

We had the place to ourselves. Some things you can’t buy: the discovery of something special, and the ability to make it your own for one evening and night, one morning, and a life-long memory.

Winter’s coming, but not yet.

A Great Mystery

I stood between two men on the Eastport breakwater and watched others pull in mackerel. One of the men was outgoing, talkative, the other silent. The gregarious one was covered with Vietnam War memorial patches, badges and slogans; his participation in the war was obviously the main component of his identity. He was proud, and seemingly undamaged; nice guy.

I could tell nothing about the other man; he looked at the sea and the fish and the gulls, and didn’t talk much. Then something happened that told me who he was. The partying “Pirates” shot off their cannon down a ways, as they had been doing at intervals all day. The second man nearly jumped out of his clothes. You’d think he’d been shot. I said, “Man, that thing is too loud!”, mostly to make him feel not alone.

He looked at the sea again. “It’s okay,” he said, “just something about forty years ago.” He was a Vietnam Veteran too. But he, who was not wearing his service for all to see, had been the one facing the booby traps, the mines.

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