I woke up to the haunting, mournful wail of loons calling in the distance and the sun beginning to peek through the window. The black and white waterfowl were ubiquitous in my hometown in, and their plaintive song would always remind me of home. I stood and stretched, and pulled my long, wavy brilliant blonde hair into a ponytail. My family history wends its way through the Baltic Peninsula, and as such, I am pale, blue eyed, and not known for my ability to tan. Tossing the knit cotton blanket and sheet aside, I stood from my bed and padded to the window. I live in a house built in the 1890s, and the windows are original, twelve pane affairs, three square panes wide by four tall; swirls and bubbles of glass are present in this window, distorting the view of the world outside. I changed from my tartan pajamas into jean shorts and a tank top over my blue and white striped bikini, and left my room. I live with my parents for the time being, this being my summer vacation from my sophomore year at Syracuse. I study engineering, and intend to one day engineer for a shipwright.
A bit about myself: my name is Claire. I'm a pretty typical college girl. I make decent grades and party every now and then. I'm not a prude, not a whore, I lie somewhere in between. In terms of looks, I'm pretty enough, in my opinion. I love my smile, straight, even, and perfectly white. I also love my eyes, a deep blue. I'm quick with a smile and am known in my sorority for my laughing fits that turn into hiccups. I am a hobby photographer and own a Canon DSLR camera that I cherish more than life itself.
My parents had gone to work already by the time I had awoken, my mother is the senior partner of the law firm of Lundquist and Starke, and my father is the captain of a three-mast schooner, which he uses for his day cruise business. He had been a Lieutenant Commander in the Coast Guard, but was able to draw his retirement when he had put in his twenty five years. Instead of venturing out in the roughest storms to rescue boaters and fishermen, he now only took his ship out when the waters were calm.
I quickly ate a bowl of granola and yogurt, and took a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a banana with me for my trip on my father's second boat, a small catboat with one sail mounted in the bow. Dad considered his two boats to be opposites; the schooner was his working vessel, which required a crew of five to operate the sails, which included my younger brother Corey and four of his friends. His catboat was his pleasure craft, a boat in which he could take my mom, brother and me out for a day of cruising. It was far easier to tack and navigate, and he could control the sails on his own with ease. On days he worked, he allowed Corey and me to use the boat, provided we let him know where we were going. Today, I had a trip to a local unnamed island planned, where I would spend my time bird watching and taking pictures. I quickly shot him a text stating that I was taking the boat and had thoroughly reviewed the weather report and tide charts.
Our house, a red brick Georgian affair, sat about twenty yards apart from the others on a stretch of rocky shore along the coast. Our house was my version of paradise; far enough away from everything that on clear nights you could hope to see the Northern Lights and countless stars, but close enough to a decently sized town that we didn't have to deal without the major comforts like city water (however disgusting it tasted in coastal Maine) and cable. A neighborhood marina housed our catboat, four houses down from me and across the street. Within moments, I was aboard and cast the mooring line away. The wind snapped the sail taut, and my worries evaporated as the shore became more distant astern.
I reefed the sail and drifted to a crawl as I tossed the anchor over the gunwale, stopping in about two feet of water. I slipped past the mast and gently lowered myself into the water, avoiding splashing water onto my camera. The water, by anyone else's standards, was quite cool; at about seventy degrees, though, it was near perfection for someone born and raised in Maine. From the island's shore, I could see the coastline of Bar Harbor about three miles distant. On this particular island, an abandoned house sat, virtually untouched, save for the birds and otters that lived here. The windows, unbroken by the storms of the past, had turned a dingy brown from unwashed grime. The front door had fallen from the rotted out frame, and lay on the warped, unfinished hardwood floor. Saplings began to creep in between the boards, giving the dwelling a morose, forlorn feel. Plaster had fallen off the walls, exposing the wood lath behind it, rotting away in places into wet, musty earth. Almost two centuries of dust and cobwebs had accumulated, and I could feel a sneezing fit coming. I decided against further exploring the house until I had some a dust mask and some long, sturdy pants. The last thing I wanted was to go through a floor wearing shorts that covered virtually none of my thighs.
I had been interested in this island since my father and uncle told us about it on a camping trip when I was about ten years old. As we sat around the roaring hardwood fire, Uncle Joe told us a creepy story of the widow of a whaling captain, who had built the house with his fortune. Each time the captain left, his wife would keep a weather eye on the horizon for her returning husband from the telescope she kept in the widow's walk on the roof. On his last, fateful trip, a Nor'easter claimed the lives of all aboard his ship. His wife was reluctant to give up hope, but after five years without seeing him, she became despondent. After tying sacks of rocks to herself, she took her catboat out and plunged herself into the waves, joining her deceased husband in the frigid waves of the Atlantic. I can remember my uncle puffing on his briar pipe, filling the clearing with the sweet aroma of Cavendish tobacco as he spoke of how on foggy nights, her ghost could be seen on the widow's walk, wailing for her deceased love.
I don't believe in the supernatural, but the story was too interesting to forget. I had made a promise to myself that one day I would venture to the island for myself. Rather than feeling creeped out by the dwelling, I felt peaceful today. This is the way nature works; all our triumphs and possessions will one day be reclaimed by nature. Our bodies will rot, our cars will rust and fall apart, our homes will decay, and the earth will claim us as her own. Such is nature.
I decided to head to the pebbly beach to attempt to tan. Being fair and blonde, my deepest tan is roughly equivalent to the winter paleness of my friend Amelia, a New York City native of Italian descent. Something is better than nothing, however. I tossed my towel onto a stretch of flat rock, weighed it down with a few stones, and strode to the water's edge. I shed my shorts and tank top a couple feet from the water, enjoying the feel of the warm sun across my back.
