Preface: Sometimes writing has to marinate before it is released into the wild. Such is the case with this piece I handwrote on a notepad well over a year ago. I’m finally ready to let it go.

In August of last year, I swore that I would escape the heat of the 7^th layer of hell in North Carolina for a few weeks the next summer and I booked a tiny cottage on the coast of Maine. I’m a planner by nature, but a year out was a bold move even for me. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. To be fair, I’m still far behind in the good decisions column, but I’m savoring this win.

I first came to Maine over 45 years ago when I was just a child. Never mind how old I was – I can still remember my first morning there. My partner and I arrived in the dark of night at a rustic inn at the tip of the East Boothbay peninsula – Ocean Point. This was long before GPS and we thought for sure we would be abducted by black bears or drunken lobstermen along the way as we kept driving into the pitch black over the winding two lane road until we finally saw the sign for the inn at the edge of the Atlantic.

Morning came and we stepped outside to the purest sunshine I had ever seen. The water was sparkling like a sea of diamonds, and the air was clean and crisp and smelled like a Christmas tree lot. I was absolutely smitten. Thank God some things never change.

It’s a funny thing – I’ve never really written about my love affair with Maine. I suppose because all those years in Maine were spent with my former partner. We traveled there over 20 times and dreamed of retiring there. I’ll give you the Cliff notes – I broke her heart and blew up my own life after both of my parents died seven months apart from each other. It’s a bit of a Greek tragedy – complete with a deeply flawed sirenesque character, but I’ll just simply say it is not a good feeling when your real life feels like a bad Lifetime movie.

Anyway, I’m forever grateful for so many magical years with her in the Pine Tree State, but I felt like I lost Maine in the divorce. To be clear – these were self-imposed sanctions. I think for a very long time, I thought I didn’t deserve custody of Maine because of some of the terrible decisions I made that hurt the people I loved most in the world. Honestly, I think I was almost afraid to return there – that the guilt and memories would drown me in those frigid Atlantic waters. So, I admired it from afar for almost two decades. And then, in 2021, during the pandemic, my dear wife and I took a road trip to Maine with two of our closest friends. Our trip took us further north than Ocean Point to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park. We had a marvelous time, and it was lovely to introduce my wife to the wonders of my favorite state. And for the record, she has always been most generous about my Maine attraction.

So Maine had been tugging at me for a few years since that trip and the Dismal Swamp of the Summer of ‘24 wore me down to a moist nub and I booked a cottage in South Bristol – back to the Mid-Coast region. My best friend was supposed to join me for the first handful of days of the trip, but she got COVID and my return to Maine began on a note of heavy disappointment. Maybe this trip wasn’t such a great idea after all.

I was anxious when I departed the Portland airport and began the drive up the coast. Unlike my first trip to Maine, I had Siri giving me directions, but guess what? I didn’t need them. My rental car was almost on autopilot as I recognized so many familiar places from my past – the Dairy Queen in Woolwich near the Bath Bridge, the legendary Red’s Eats in Wiscasset – the prettiest village in Maine – and the joy inducing sign on Route 1 pointing to the Boothbay Harbor Region. As I drove, I could feel the huge smile on my face – in a way, I was coming home.

I arrived in South Bristol in the late afternoon, and the sun was dancing on the water. I felt like a self-absorbed college kid returning home with bags of dirty laundry filled with regret and shame for all the mistakes that I had made. Maine was not at all surprised to see me – the prodigal daughter – return after all these years. And it turns out that Maine is much more forgiving than I am. Once again, I was smitten.

Maine doesn’t blame – it gives you space to heal.

I think maybe that’s how it works with our favorite places. I’ve always been fascinated with other people’s favorites – everyone has one. Well, maybe unhappy people don’t, but that’s just too sad to think about. You know what I’m talking about – the place you think about when you need a virtual vacation on a really bad day – your happy place. That’s been Maine for me for a very long time. Oh, I’ve flirted with other places – most especially California. My little sister has lived in some gorgeous spots there – Del Mar, Newport Beach, East Bay and Napa – and I have thoroughly enjoyed my extended visits in all of those places. There’s just something about Maine – the majestic, jagged coastline reflects the essence of its people. Mainers are not precious or pretentious – they have a rugged confidence tinged with pride and a wicked sense of humor. It just suits me. And no, I have never spent a winter there, but I do own the obligatory Bean boots.

One of my first days in South Bristol, I drove to Pemaquid Point Lighthouse – an iconic fixture in Maine since 1827 when President John Quincy Adams commissioned it. I pulled up to the tiny gatehouse and the old man selling the admission passes looked straight out of New England central casting – he had a white beard and was wearing a faded Red Sox baseball cap from before they won their first World Series. He leaned out of his little window and smiled and asked, “Have you been here before?” (you must read that with a Maine accent) and I said, “Yes, sir, about a hundred years ago.” He didn’t miss a beat as he gave me my pass and handed me a map and said, “Well, welcome back. You’re due for a visit.” I wanted to get out of my car and hug him.

And so I spent the better part of two glorious weeks letting the beauty of  Maine wash over my old wounds. I spent hours staring into the breathtaking view from the deck of my cottage. I never touched the television and hardly looked at my phone. I listened to Mother Nature’s symphony, and it was a balm to my soul – the muffled purring of the lobster boats in the early morning hours, the echoes of children splashing in the water, and the haunting wail of a lone loon at night. I was entirely present to the splendor before me, and I felt held by it in the most tender way.

And then it finally came to me – that exquisite feeling of contentment and safety – and I realized that Maine loves me unconditionally and I let out an exhale as deep as the ocean before me. Maine had forgiven me and it was time to forgive myself.

There’s a classic Maine expression “you can’t get there from here” – it’s a humorous way to give someone directions to a place that’s so hard to reach and filled with so many obstacles that you might as well give up before you start. Turns out, you can get there – it just might take you 20 years or so.

Ayuh.