Island Life🏝️

I have fantasized about being stranded on an island with no boat home, just enough food, and an endless supply of juice for my computer battery. Island life would create the buffer I need to protect my writing projects from the countless attacks of daily life. My mind would be clear and words would flow like water over smooth stone. Every breath would birth words of clarity, poetry, and inspiration. My productivity would soar through the roof of my humble hut and I’d return home with a complete manuscript. 

Four days on an island last week provided me with a healthy reality check. When I booked the Chebeague Mongolian Yurt (pictured above) for our anniversary get-away, I secretly hoped to return for a writing retreat someday. Being there, burst that bubble. 

Our 32nd wedding anniversary inspired us to return to a sweet memory from our honeymoon. Back in 1992, we camped on Isle le Haut - part of Acadia National Park in Maine. (Yes, you heard that right. We campedon our honeymoon. But fear not: we balanced that out with two nights in a luxurious inn - before and after.) Last week, we landed on Chebeague - a gem of an island in Casco Bay that locals and tourists alike access via a passenger ferry. She was a bit easier to get to than Isle Le Haut but it was still a production, not without a significant amount of planning and calculations. 

Now: don’t get me wrong. I LOVED being on Chebeague with my hubby. We walked for miles exploring stony beaches, savored each other’s company in the sweetness of the yurt and enjoyed taking in the history and quirky vibe while chatting with the colorful locals. We noted a primal fact that dictates island life: every tangible necessity must be carried, wheeled and boated on island - and every item deemed unnecessary needs to be carted away, repurposed or deserted. The hour long shuttle and ferry ride to and fro was an anthropological study. Day trippers, workers and locals exited the ferry single file. A team of tired house cleaners pulled a small wagon with vacuum, mop and bucket stuffed with dirty rags. A tile layer, covered in white dust, carried his angle grinder like a baby, its diamond blade safely stowed. Two white-haired women with weathered skin chatted about their waggoned groceries, then planned to meet later for a swim. 

There is great romance in this interesting commute for the visitors. And the locals possess a fierce devotion to the island lifestyle. I noticed how they loved talking about and amongst themselves. (Not one was interested in our lives.) They revered and protected their own. One young entrepreneur - a ninth generation native - was elated to be buying a house so that he could provide a place for his friends who had moved “off island” to return to.

I experienced a charming but unsettled feeling of both transience and entrenchment. Fleeting romances and hidden roots. Everyone knows everything. I have no doubt this vibe would crawl under my skin and make me itchy if I stayed much longer. 

Itchy skin is definitely not conducive to writing. But I have to wonder: is it just me? Is my culty radar too finely honed on traits that seem insular and I'm missing the boat? 

Tell me: what are your island stories?