Here is a  note from a longtime OP pal.

You know me. 

They used to call me three trees, but Mother Nature culled my two siblings several years go, so I guess I am now alone – the Lone Ranger – sans Tonto.

For decades, I presided over the point of Ocean Point. It was a good gig, a fun time to observe humanity when they thought no one was watching.

From my high branches I spied picnickers from away navigate the rocks as they crawled close to the waves, while secretly tucking their sandwich wrappers into the cracks. 

I can’t remember all the lobster traps and buoys found on the shore. Some lobstermen set them close to the edge. They were known as kamikaze traps, designed to gather “bugs,” but destined to die in the line of duty.

Sunrise and sunset were always special times at The Point. 

Armed with a hot cup of coffee, and a stale donut, some shipyard workers would park near my spot starting their day watching Old Sol peek over the edge of the Damariscotta River as they prepared for their shift at Washburn & Doughty, the makers of the finest tugboats in the world.

Evenings were the time for seniors to park by Wayne Keene’s old cottage, and hold hands, just like they did a thousand years or so ago when Bobby socks were in fashion. As they watched seagulls soar and slapped buzzing skeeters, the senior set seemed to revel as the dying sun sent shards of light through the windshields bathing their comfy world yellow, then magenta, to fire engine red, then a rich deep blue. Then they would just look at each other and smile. 

As then evening sky darkened and the clock moved on, teenagers took their parking spots. They would laugh, crack bad jokes, and try their hand at new love. I am sure they have fond memories of their first attempts at romance. 

But, from my perch high above their mothers’ cars – Volvo station wagons, minivans filled with beach towels and toys, and the occasional open Jeep – the young couple’s first kiss was a bit awkward. But then, romance is a bit awkward for us all. 

Later, the spots vacated by the oldsters and youngsters were replaced by gaggles of college-aged summer workers who used the darkened moonlight to catch up on gossip and attempt a pass or two. Sometimes their revels were accompanied by the familiar click and swoosh of popped tops, and secretive attempts to light homemade cigarettes filled with vegetable products that are now legal.

Each spring, dozens of locals and a few visitors gathered at my spot to celebrate Easter with a glorious sunrise service. 

The words from the Good Book and a familiar hymn or two seemed appropriate to celebrate the brilliant sun’s rise over the Damariscotta then peeking over Ram Island warming my swaying limbs.

Then, with a cheer, it was over and the crowd rushed to their cars en route to East Boothbay Methodist Church for a hearty community breakfast and a chance to greet their neighbors.

But, dear friends, from my spot on The Point, the warm sunshine and placid waters are not always welcoming. Last week, the mighty ocean lived up to its name – mighty. 

Mother Nature kicked up her heels sending swirling winds, driven by huge high and low pressure zones, and whipped up the waves at the exact time the tides rolled in, mashing the shoreline and flipping boulders the size of Buicks around like a Yo-Yo at the hands of the late and great Tommy Smothers. Somehow I was able to hang onto the rocks. 

The waves roared in sending floats and docks askew and smashing a Grimes Cove cottage that for years held tight to the granite ledges because generations of owners invested their fortunes and sweat to keep it in shape.

The powerful seas shook asphalt roads that for years welcomed fitness walkers and sightseers. In what seemed to me a short time, the mighty waves turned the fine black asphalt pavement to rubble resembling giant licorice squares peppered by the aforementioned boulders the size of Buicks.

I can’t tell you why the sea roared in, for it does that from time to time, but some claim it has something to do with the changing climate. I don’t know, but that is a topic for another time. 

I know I am telling you some of my fond memories of Ocean Point from my point of view – a lone scraggly tree hanging on to the edge of the sea. I am told we are not alone, that Maine’s eight coastal counties suffered similar damage. It will take years and millions to restore us all.

From my post, I have seen it all, joy, love, happiness and sorrow. 

But today, I look at my beloved Ocean Point and weep.

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