A Foggy Fourth

I was sitting by the water, eating a peach flavored ice cream cone, when the fog began to roll in. Slowly but surely, a wide blanket of mist descended on Port Clyde harbor, shrouding every lobster boat, sailboat, and skiff in a ghostly haze that lingered for hours. The sun was hot in the middle of the day, before the fog came. It was the fourth of July, and this small fishing village was alive with the sounds of laughing children, bustling tourists, and chattering locals, all of whom seemed to congregate around the town dock in a not so subtle show of patriotic pride. Men wore red, white and blue shirts, while women wore straw boaters, adorned with American flags. Children rode their bikes down the streets with miniature flags attatched to the handlebars. The Stars and Stripes were presented all over town, draped over white porches, flown off balcony's, and perched atop masts of sailboats. The respective flags danced around in the splendid summer wind, rising and falling with each heavenly gust. As the afternoon began to fade into evening, and the fog settled in for the foreseeable future, the air turned cool and the temperature dropped into the low 60's. I walked along the shore, down Horse Point Road, my faithful Nikon at the ready. I explored a trap strewn dock towards the end of the road, that from the looks off it, had at least 10-15 boats operating off of it. All around me, skiffs glistened in the foggy light, while rows and rows of spruce trees revealed only their tops, above the fog and the piles of lobster traps that sat below their rugged branches. I watched as the fog would lift for a what seemed like a few minutes, then just as the sun would appear, it would roll right back in. The fog played this game of hide and seek for the better part of an hour, before finally settling in for the evening. In that lovely hour of sun and fog, the light on the water was nothing short of brilliant. I snapped away as it continued to change with every passing minute. I could see a boat twenty feet in front of me, and then all of a sudden, the boat would disappear, only to reappear a few moments later. The wind off the ocean was light now, just right. Sweet smells of salt water and spruce trees wafted through the early evening air. Today I was proud to call myself an American, but more importantly, I was pround to call myself a Mainer. To live in this beautiful state is a privilege that I do not take for granted. Everyday on the Maine coast is a different day. Some are filled with dreary rain, while some are filled with sublime sunshine. Whatever the case, these days are magical and if these short but sweet days of summer are here for the taking, then take I will.