Turn About

Two days later, and we're still  laughing about that t-shirt we saw in Orchard Beach: That's a nice story, Babe, now make me a sandwich. But we think it's funny, because in our house, the opposite would be way more accurate. In fact I can almost hear Heidi saying it now: That's a nice sandwich, Babe, now listen to my story...

Amusement

I've never been a big fan of amusement parks. Once many years ago when a group of coworkers at the catering company where I cooked planned a big day-off outing to Busch Gardens, I tagged along for the company. It wasn't long before someone noticed I wasn't waiting in many of those long turnstile lines. "If you don't like rides, what are you here for?" she wondered.

"Oh, I came for the food and the shows," I replied. That cracked us up for a while.

When I was a kid, the cool, new ride was the flume. Theme parks everywhere were adding a log ride to their attractions. People loved the novelty of getting wet at the end of the thrilling plunge. Back then, the lines for the flume were always over an hour long, especially on a hot summer day. I remember waiting impatiently in such a line with my mom, brother, and sister. Even though I tried to avoid anything with a big drop, there was something about the churning water in the half pipe chute that soothed my fear. When we emerged, dripping as advertised, down the ramp at the end of the ride, my reaction was a distinct, That wasn't too bad.

Even today, there's something about a log ride that I find vaguely inviting, and so when I found myself at an amusement park this afternoon with Heidi's parents, Kyle, and Josh, I agreed to ride the flume with Kyle when no one else would. The line was maybe a quarter of an hour long, and I passed the time enjoying the shade of the pavilion, chatting with Kyle, and people watching.

I was probably the oldest person waiting to climb into a fiberglass log, and my first observation was that tattoos really seem to be here stay, at least among the western New York theme park crowd. After that, I affectionately noticed many people who reminded me of students, past and present, and then I saw folks who reminded me of me. Here a little girl waiting with her mom and siblings, there an a young girl with her cousins, and another older girl with her high school friends. In the next turnstile over, I saw a woman in her thirties with a group of kids who weren't her children, but were definitely hers.

At last it was time for me and Kyle to board our log and float off with the rushing current, and so we did, laughing as the water splashed us at the foot of each drop. "That was fun!" Kyle said as we walked down the ramp to rejoin our group. I did not disagree.

Roadside Assistance

Hurricane Arthur smacked the Maine coast somewhere around three this morning. Hard steady rain pounding on the skylights and wind howling through the balsams woke me up, and it was hard to get back to sleep knowing all the packing and loading we would have to do once day broke.

The storm was still steady when we all got up, but with the help of Josh and the benefit of our new foul weather gear, we were only slightly soggy when we piled into the van for a 9:30 departure. The going was a little slow on the two-lane roads that made up the first leg of our journey, though, and it was close to noon before we made the interstate.

Then there was the question of that lobster we promised to bring to Heidi's parents in Buffalo, so I got off the turnpike again south of Portland, hoping to find a good place on Rte 1. Our search took us on a detour to Orchard Beach, where we found a helpful lobster pound who packed up four to go. 

Saturday of Fourth of July weekend is crowded at any beach town, though, and we found ourselves stuck in traffic on the strip. Even though it gave us a lot of opportunity to people watch and window shop from the van (best bad shirt slogan: That was a nice story, babe, now make me a sandwich), knowing we had miles to go before we slept, we soon became impatient to get back on the road. 

By now it was well past lunch time, and we delayed a little longer looking for a spot where we could get one last lobster roll and maybe a couple of burgers. No such luck, though, and so I turned back onto the highway.

Not too far down the road we passed a rest stop and service area with a huge sign: Lobsters packed to travel, and darn it if they didn't have lobster rolls and burgers, too. Good to know.

Arthurian

With a hurricane looming and a national holiday on the calendar, we decided to take it easy this last day of our vacation and hang close to our rental home. At dinner last night, anticipating rain, I proposed taking advantage of the ping pong table downstairs by organizing a little double elimination tournament.  "I know what's going to happen," Bill said. "Josh is going to crush us all-- unless I can beat him." Despite the dire prediction, everyone agreed to play, and with the help of that miraculous internet, I put together a random bracket for the nine of us.

Today dawned clear and sunny, though, and with Wimbledon and the World Cup, we all found other things to do until about 4 pm. There were gathering clouds then, and the prospect of making a potluck supper using as many of our left overs as possible, so we knew it was now or never, and the nine of us trooped down the stairs for the first game of the tourney.

The table was a flat blue as Bill and Emily picked up their paddles to face off in the first game. We are all rusty or novices or both, and as the tournament progressed the play was an exciting combination of skill and incompetence. Double elimination gave all of us a chance at redemption, and there was a lot of improvement as we played. Even so, it seemed like Bill's prediction would hold, as Josh soundly beat his early opponents. Bill himself fell in an early round, and the consequence was that he had to win several games in a row to advance, but at last he did, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat on more than one occasion.

In the end it came to the show down of Bill versus Josh. Josh was well rested, having come through the winner's bracket, and Bill, having played three straight matches, had to beat him twice to claim the title "Clam-pion" or king of the clams.

We were all on the edge of our seats, our heads nodding back and forth with each rally, as they battled point by point. Bill took the first game, but Josh smiled with casual determination as he served to win the title. It was not to be. Bill's prediction of the night before was borne out. He had stopped the juggernaut of a Josh.

Outside, a light rain had started. Arthur approached.

Unbroken

For me, one of the pleasures of a long road trip is always the chance to listen to an audio book on the way. For this voyage from Virginia to Maine and on to Buffalo and Hershey, PA, before returning home, I had to think for a while before I came up with a book I thought all four of us, two middle aged ladies, and two boys, 18 and 14, might enjoy.

As I browsed through the options, I came across Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand, the story of Louis Zamperini, an Olympic runner who as an airman during WWII crashed into the Pacific and then spent 47 days adrift in a life raft before being captured by the Japanese and imprisoned. My friend Mary had told me what a great story it was, and it definitely seemed to have something for everyone in our group, so I thought I would give it a try.

We were almost to Connecticut when I made a general announcement to the van that all passengers would have to listen to at least two chapters of the book before putting in their own earbuds. Josh and Kyle were more than obliging, and the four of us were hooked long before we hit the detour at exit 30 on I-84. 

The narrative is so riveting that we have listened to it all week up and down the country roads of Maine on our way to this or that beautiful place. We have also brought it up in conversation so many times, that this evening when I was helping with dinner, my brother burst into the kitchen, the NY Times website on his iPad. "Louis is dead!" he announced.

I was momentarily confused, but then I understood. At 97 years old, after all the trials he had faced, the hero of our story finally passed away peacefully at home in California. I felt a lump in my throat and goosebumps on my arms; it was as if someone I knew had died.

Rest in peace, Louie.

Fly Boy

It was no easy feat to get our party of nine people and two dogs out the door by 8 am this morning, but we did it. We only had one chance for the mail boat in Stonington that would take us over to Isle au Haut for the day, and so everybody got up early, ate breakfast, and packed lunches and enough water to last all day-- there were no stores where we were going.

The island was just as beautiful today as I remembered it, with plenty of wide granite ledges and cobble stone beaches overlooking the deep blue Atlantic, but it was a much buggier than last time, too. The cool ocean breeze kept a lot of pests away, but there were still a few stretches of trail where we were all swatting deer flies and some pretty huge horse flies, too. It became almost a social activity; each of us obligingly smacking anything that landed on the hiker in front of us. Kyle pursued the parasites with particular alacrity, reveling in each successful swat. "Pow!" He exclaimed at one point, "I got him right in the buzzer!"

Parking

There's a little park at the end of Main Street in Bar Harbor that looks out over the Harbor itself and the Porcupine Islands beyond. Our group of nine split up after doing our traditional picnic on Great Head this afternoon. The big boys and Seiyoung headed off for the Bee Hive and other challenges while Bill, Emily, Heidi, Kyle and I took the dogs into town. Once here, I thought it was a little too warm to leave the dogs in the car, and with not much interest in shopping, the three if us set off down the hill. Here I found a shady spot on the grass just a little ways up from the four masted schooner Margaret Hood. Right now bits of conversations in several different languages are floating past on the warm breeze blowing through the maples and birches, and the dogs are sleeping only to be roused by the friendly folks asking to give them a pat as they pass.