Sylvia's Journal

Yesterday was a flying day. Once again we tried to fly to Owl’s Head (Rockland, Maine) and once again we did not make it. At this pace it may take years to get there. Instead we flew to Portland Maine and I had my first experience landing in a C airspace, which is one category down from airports like Boston, LA and New York, and one level up from places like Beverly and Concord. Flying into a C airspace requires more radio contact with approach and departure air traffic controllers, and thus more changes of frequencies; so it was nice to have four hands, eyes and ears.

From the ground it appeared like a nice day, blue sky, hardly any wind. Once off the ground it was hazy with a visibility around 6 miles at best and at times it felt like I was flying in the clouds. It was nice to have an IFR-rated co-pilot, just in case. I felt more comfortable by a few degrees, as each trip rebuilds my confidence and skill. Bill is a patient and gentle teacher. When I am doing something new or difficult he acts like a coach. On the way back we did a touch & go at Pease. Both airports have long runways, made for jets. One could take off and land again on the same runway in a tiny plane like ours. I imagine that, from a distance, we look like a mosquito amidst a flock of birds.

Below us everything was clear so we had an excellent view on the traffic jams on routes 495 and 95 where vacationers heading out to New Hampshire and Maine were stuck for miles. We bypassed the lines at a speed of 100 knots, about 2000 feet overhead and got to experience how the traffic reporters feel as they tell us from overhead what a jam we are in. This is why I have a plate on our car that says “I’d rather be Flying.”

While I was up in the air Axel had bicycled to a pick nick a little further north up the shore organized by the Democratic town committee of which he is an active member. Several hours later he dragged himself in on his bike as if he had just completed the most demanding leg of the Tour de France. It is at those moments that we know his stamina isn’t back to what it used to be. That it was over 90 degrees did not help, but living by the ocean did help and we both spent the next few hours in Lobster Cove or on its edges, swimming, reading, napping, swimming, reading, napping; several cycles of this.

A gentleman who was doing the same on the other side of the Cove walked over and introduced himself. Axel’s and his grandfather used to be good friends. Soon the conversation drifted into architecture and the demolition of famous old houses when mega million lots change hands. Axel pulled a mildewed chart from the cellar that showed the area of Lobster Cove some 125 years ago. The chart shows few houses. Most of the area was farmland, along Lobster Cove road which is now Masconomo Street. The chart always makes for good conversation but its current state also reminds us that we have been bad stewards of the inheritance which is in rough shape and needs expert care to restore it and save it a few more generations.

I rigged my newly varnished Alden Shell and Axel pulled down his kayak for a paddle/row to Singing Beach. When I row without moving my seat we go about the same speed; when I use the full stroke I take off like a lightning bolt leaving Axel far behind. We look in different directions: he sees where I am going, and can warn me of rocks and large rollers while I see where I have been, which includes the sight of Axel fading into the distance. Axel had brought two beers for the trip but I soon learned that although you can paddle with a beer between your knees (there is even a cup holder in the molded kayak seat) you cannot do that rowing. Soon I had a bottle rolling around in a puddle of beer underneath my sliding seat. When I later carried the boat back onto shore beer dripped into my hair and down my face. I could catch a few droplets mixed in with salt water.

When the tide was at its lowest we hunted for mussels and discovered to our dismay that our two sources were empty. The middle of the cove had been scoured clean of mussels by the winter storms while the tide pool bed had been scooped clean last summer by humans who had shown up with big buckets. We had no idea what a job they had done; nor the effect of this winter’s storms. It looks like it will be a summer without mussels for the first time in many years; a big disappointment. The intended mussel dinner thus had to be canceled. Instead we had potatoes and zucchini from our garden, stir-fried with local shrimp that we froze last winter, in a not so local peanut sauce.