I was sitting outside The Stump yesterday evening, absently beating mosquitoes to death with a rock, when Cory Coffin roared up in her baby-blue Bronco. The tires spewed gravel and dirt as she spun to a stop on the road.
She leaned over, rolled down the passenger window, and offered me a cheerful greeting: “Get in.”
In response to promptings from my fan base, I attempted another interview with the captain and crew of the USS Francisco. My efforts were thwarted, however, by one of those rare occurrences that haunt even the most seasoned journalists: The ship had already put out to sea. I sped southward to The Village and clambered across the rocks on the beach, and I could just make out the anal-retentive little silhouette of the ship close to the horizon.
Cory Coffin grew up in Maine. She was born in Maine, she went to school at the University of Maine at Orono, she graduated from UMaine with a degree in history, she married Henry in Maine, she gave birth to Meg in Maine. Now she lives in Maine, pouring drinks and changing the sheets every month at The Larboard. She has already chosen the little plot in the cemetery where she and Henry will spend the rest of eternity in Maine.
It’s maybe the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of. In a couple of days, I’m going with Meg to the GSI Quaker Church. To make sure I didn’t hold my hymnal with the wrong hand or enter through the door reserved for the Bishop or something, I checked out a few books about Quakers from the GSI Library. Like any good journalist, I believe in doing a thorough job of background research. I learned a lot.
After the seemingly endless Coffin dinner the other night, Meg and I slipped out the “front” door of her house — the door facing the sea, only used by family — right after dessert, and we walked along the beach.
Previously, in Island Wars… Donovan Graham, a young and hungry journalist, got a job blogging for a small newspaper that sent him to Grand Seal Island to cover a military spat between the U.S. and Canada. When he wasn’t challenging a Navy destroyer in a wooden rowboat, he bought a derelict car, found a crumbling house, and developed a taste for parties in the hippie enclave on the south end of the island.
It’s hideously cruel, really. Some poor slob of a lobster is crawling across the bottom of the sea, acting all tough ’cause he’s got this bad-ass pair of claws in front of him. He smells something rotten and lovely, and he shuffles over to it for a bit of the old pinch-and-gulp. But what’s this? I can’t get out! What’s going on here?
The people in The Village — Eliza, Bo, Summer, and the gang — have elevated the art of partying to permanent rolling status. Just like there are poker games that have been going on for decades, with the participants joining in for a few hours or a few days and then departing to go to work or vacation in Miami or get married or die or something, only to be replaced at the table by someone else who keeps the game alive, the party at The Village has been actively under way since the first hippies occupied the first shack back in the early ’60s.
I've done the math, and there's at least a 50-50 chance I'm an idiot.
Yesterday, in lieu of Donovan Graham’s sometimes engaging prose, I used this space to explain my decision to temporarily suspend Mr. Graham from his blogging position at the Eastport Sun.
This action was taken in response to the immaturity that he displayed in a previous blog entry, immaturity that I hoped was on the wane.