From my earliest time in Maine, I have been fascinated by the seas around us. Where I grew up, in the central Appalachians of Pennsylvania coal country, nothing compared to the magnificence that surrounds us here on the Boothbay peninsula. We had a few lakes and the West branch of the Susquehanna River, but there was not a view that compared to the endless waters of the Atlantic. 

I find the actions of the ocean to be almost hypnotic. The comings and goings of the tides, the surf and waves, the ice in cold winters and the full activity of summers filled with boats. It was all new to me. I couldn’t wait to invite my sisters, mother and dad to visit. And everyone, except my father, who spent some time over the bad oceans of the Second World War, were just as fascinated as I was. They, as have I, marveled at the beauty, colors and actions along the shores, unaccustomed as I was, to the uniquenesses and differences. 

I am reminded of mother’s first visit by airplane. Mother did not fly. She was claustrophobic and could go up in smoke in tight spaces like the seat of a packed full airplane. My sisters helped me set mother up with some medication that helped her be a brave soul. It was her first time on an airplane, and she was concerned. 

After we picked her up at the airport and drove toward home, we took her directly to Ocean Point for the fantastic views. Mother was a chatterbox. All through our childhood there was seldom a quiet moment. She sang as she made meals, listened to music, hung out clothes on our outside clothesline and directed us with varying volumes to pick things up, put things away and come to dinner. People in our neighborhood always noted mother’s hailing us. It was something akin to the volume signaled by sirens indicating the location of a fire! 

But, at Ocean Point, she went silent, and we got worried. Mother was seldom without a comment or observation. Finally, I asked, “Is everything OK mother?” I feared that the drug used for the flight may have been overdone! “Bob,” she finally whispered, “Why are all these homes boarded up?” Susan and I sort of giggled a bit. I replied, "The owners only use them in summer.” “You mean, they have another house somewhere else?” “Yes," I said, as we passed by Ocean Point Inn and rounded the bend away from the water. 

Mother loved the waves and the sounds they made against the shore. She especially liked the sounds rocks made as the water retreated, tumbling and clacking. But she never saw the oceans when they became annoyed and angry like we experienced in those January storms. The true power of the ocean was revealed!   

As an old Georgia construction buddy of mine used to say, “It’s all good until it ain’t!” Such was the case as the storms attacked with waves that dismantled buildings and piers, removing roads and causeways. We didn’t have storms like that back in the hills of Pennsylvania.