Over thirty years ago my late brother Richard and his wife Esther bought a house on Vinalhaven, an island in Maine. They spent every summer there, and as the years went by, four of their seven grown children and a granddaughter bought houses too.

Every summer at the end of July or beginning of August, children and grandchildren and great grandchildren gather in Vinalhaven for a week, filling all the houses, renting a couple more. We celebrated Richard’s eightieth birthday there, as well as three weddings. My oldest brother Don and his wife used to come from Connecticut to join the gathering. Now the drive is too much for them, but Esther hopes next summer they will fly.

I’ve always envied families who have a summer gathering place where they go every year. Joe’s parents always had a cottage at Crescent Beach in Connecticut, where his mother and aunt and their seven children spent a month in the summer, fathers coming out from the city for weekends. My friend Michelle sings with Other Voices; her song Bradley Beach perfectly conveys her childhood annual trip to the New Jersey shore, the kids crowded into the back seat, the summer thrills changing as they grew from toddlers to teens. Here’s the song

I went up to Vinalhaven several times before I married, but never felt quite comfortable there, and the trek from Florida was daunting. But since Joe and I married and Amanda came to live with us, we have usually managed to rent a house in Vinalhaven for family week. Now it is a magical place for me, a place where I have no cellphone service, wifi is scarce, lobsters are plentiful, icy water comforts my old joints, and beautiful views and beloved family are around every blind curve.

This year, because of Amanda’s school schedule, we couldn’t go for family week, but several family members arrived a couple of days before we left. And this year I went up by myself a week early to stay with my oldest niece Maria.

Like any trip to a magical place, the trip to Vinalhaven is a challenge. It’s full of unforeseen troubles and treasures, and the heroine must overcome many obstacles. I flew out of Gainesville at 7:15, scheduled to arrive in Portland about noon. I was going to spend the night at Luke’s house in Portland and drive to Rockland to get the Vinalhaven ferry the next day. (Rental car agencies and ferry schedules determined this plan.)

But at the gate in Atlanta they were calling for volunteers to take a later flight. They were desperate: the first volunteers got $300, but by the time I arrived it was a $700 American Express gift card good for six months. I thought a moment.  I would get to Portand by five thirty instead of noon. Since neither Luke nor his daughter Frances was free my plan in Portland was simply to goof around. So I raised my hand to volunteer, headed to the desk, tripped and landed on my face. The only damage was the rug-burn on my cheek, and the mortification as four people gathered around the 72-year-old woman on the ground asking, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

After my scheduled flight took off with my checked bag, I sat at the empty gate and worked on an application for a 2020 writing residency in Washington – lots of 1200-word essays about me and my aspirations. Then a big thunderstorm rolled in, and all incoming flights were diverted from Atlanta, along with all the flight crews. Our copilot was in Birmingham; the rest God and Delta knew where. Every half hour or so we got a progress report. I went to a restaurant a few gates away and, because of the crowd, shared a table, sushi, and Scotch with a delightful university librarian from Cleveland. (Now that I think of it, I bet I could have scored a dinner voucher).

Back at the gate they were boarding. We were all settled in our seats when they announced an equipment issue, and we all unsettled and returned to the airport. An hour later we were back on the plane and in the air with that uneasy feeling one always has when flying on a plane with a recent equipment issue.

We arrived in Portland at 8:30. I retrieved my suitcase from the baggage office and rolled it up and down ramps to the rental car desk. I was exhausted, and a little worried to be driving in a strange city in the dark, but so glad to finally reach Portland. Then the nice young man behind the desk said, “Ma’am, this driver’s license expired last week.” Sure enough, it had. I had ordered another but it never arrived, and I’d forgotten about it. So I would have to take the bus from Portland to Rockland.

I rolled up and down more ramps and found a taxi with a friendly driver and a GPS to navigate through funky old Portland neighborhoods. When the GPS said we’d arrived,  we couldn’t find the house number. The driver waited; “I’m not going to leave you here alone.” I called my nephew and his daughter with no success. A neighbor pulled into a driveway but didn’t know Luke. I climbed up to front porches looking at all the mailboxes, and finally found it. Climbed the long stairs to the second floor, took a welcome hot shower, and fell asleep.

The bus ride from Portland to Rockland was uneventful. I didn’t worry about whether we would miss the last Vinalhaven ferry, because in my experience the bus always misses the ferry, and I know what to do. You take the North Haven ferry, find a boy with a boat, and pay him $5 to shuttle you across the water to the wrong end of Vinalhaven, where, if you can make proper phone connections with family, someone will meet you.

Maria did meet me – Luke, the only one with cell service, had left her a note. We went to Esther’s house for dinner and a very welcome glass of wine., and then home for bed.

Maria and I are only ten years apart; she is also a writer. We are kindred spirits and we bump along well together; Maria’s apartment in Washington Heights and house in Vinalhaven are two of my favorite writing retreats.  The house is an old farmhouse about a mile out of town.

My attic bedroom was up a narrow staircase  with high risers and shallow treads. The one bathroom is downstairs, so a couple of times a night I was  hauling myself back up the stairs with the help of a rope banister. But the bedroom was bliss and I slept soundly every night, after indulging myself in Wodehouse. (Maria has the complete collection, and it’s like a box of See’s chocolates.I read two of his novels in a row, and discovered that’s too much Wodehouse.)

Whenever I’m away from home, especially by myself, I sleep really well; perhaps because no home or family concerns call for my attention. I also work prodigiously. In two weeks in Maine I wrote a 15-page talk for a presentation in November, a short article about longleaf pine restoration, and a chapter of my fourth novel, as well as five 1200-word essays for the residency application, which I had to reduce to 1200 characters each when I realized I had misread the application form. It was flowing, and I was extremely happy.

At Maria’s I rose each morning about five and worked a few hours until she emerged. Her summer was very busy. She and her sister Ani had just finished revisions on a screenplay, a comic family thriller set in Eastern Europe. Luke, who is a cinematographer, was checking it over and correcting formatting before they sent it back to the producer. Difficult discussions were underway about casting. I loved being privy to all this glamorous drama.

Maria’s daughter Adriana has a thriving yoga studio. Maria went to yoga every morning and took care of the eight-year-old twins every afternoon after their summer camp. A Monopoly game was in progress on the living room floor. Dylan had Park Place and Mia had Boardwalk; somebody had hotels on Mediterranean and Baltic. When they took a break from climbing trees, swimming in the quarry, exploring outside and writing in their nature journals, they sat on the floor fiercely disputing trades and deals.

Every night Maria and I had dinner with Esther. The three of us took turns cooking. After dinner we played Scrabble. Maria won once, I won once, and Esther won five times. She is gleeful when she wins, her gloating barely concealed by sympathetic comments about our crummy letters.

One night Gabe joined us; I had barely seen him since his wedding to Adri. That night I learned how funny and interesting he is. He told hilarious stories of the Rockland to Vinalhaven plane – he commuted to his editing job in Boston when they lived on the island year-round.

We had tea with Maria’s friend Lorraine, joined by another friend, Alex. Lorraine’s house is modern and dramatic, with a fireplace of huge granite rocks fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. It overlooks a cove, and we briefly sat on the deck before the mosquitoes drove us inside. Lorraine served tea, cookies and sweet raw scallops dressed with lemon and olive oil. I couldn’t get enough of them.

We had gratifying conversation about my book, and lots of talk about the New York arts scene. Maria and Esther both have friends among leaders of major arts institutions. The cultural elitist in me is awed. I’m also amused. Like many creative people, my family tends towards shabby and broke, yet they hobnob with people who attend museum galas.

 

Without a car and with family so busy, I made frequent use of Vinalhaven’s lone taxi. Jeanne would pick me up at the library on a moment’s notice. Better than that, we instantly discovered we are kindred spirits. For many years she taught art and English at the Vinalhaven school; she has writing aspirations and a strong lefty-feminist streak. I was foolishly proud to have made my own friend on Vinalhaven, instead of just tagging along to meet my family’s friends.

 

Maria’s husband Chuck and their son Cristian were arriving Saturday, so I moved into our rental house. It was very sleek and new, and quite cheap because it was several miles out of town and not on the water, but on a steep rise above the road, looking out into fir trees. It didn’t have the charm of my family’s old farmhouses and cottages, but it was set up perfectly for everyone’s privacy. I had a happy night and morning all by myself, and then Jean took me to the last ferry to meet Joe, Amanda, and my son Eric.

We amused ourselves together and separately. Joe and I swam in the quarry and the icy Basin. I swam in the Bathing Hole, muddy at low tide but cold and salty. We went for a short hike together, and he went kayaking twice – eagles and ospreys and seals.

Eric was sick and couldn’t do all the vigorous Maine things he loves. Though he’s very self-sufficient, I’m sure my fretting was curative. Amanda slept a lot and immersed herself in wifi, as she does at home. But at night she went off with the older, college-age cousins.

Long ago, when Amanda was nine, the older cousins went rock-climbing. They told the young ones they were going to talk about adult things; if they didn’t know what puberty was, they couldn’t come. Amanda knew all about puberty, but poor 7-year-old Gus and his little brother were excluded. From then on, Amanda was part of the big kids. Now it’s not rock-climbing, but hanging out at somebody’s house until early morning. I’m glad she’s included.

 

As family members arrived, we shared dinner or desserts, and then played games. The Minister’s Cat – everybody claps in rhythm, and we go around the room, “The Minister’s Cat is atrocious, The Minister’s Cat is beautiful, The Minister’s Cat is cadaverous….” If you can’t think of a word or keep up with the rhythm, you’re out. The adverb game: one person leaves the room, and the group decides on an adverb. Ze returns and tells people to perform actions – Ben, write a letter – Luke, wash your hair – in the manner of the adverb. Then ze has to guess the adverb. Don polishing Joe’s shoes amorously is a sight I’ll never forget.

On our last night I prepared the family dinner – there were 15. I made a salad and my much-praised beef stew in a newfangled oven that had me cursing. For some reason the potatoes and carrots weren’t thoroughly cooked, but no one complained. People brought ice cream bars, popsicles and cookies. Afterwards some played a wild card game called spoons – I don’t know how it worked, but every once in a while there was a mad scramble to grab a spoon from the table. In another corner was a more sedate game of Uno.

I love that there are no televisions in my family’s houses; that people don’t hide their faces behind their phones. I love that people from 7 to 87 play nerdy games with enthusiasm and hilarity.  I love the harmonizing singing sessions, with songs old and new. I love that writing and art are seen as essential endeavors. This is my family’s culture, and I feel at home in it, though I have moved into a different world.

To take your car on the ferry from Vinalhaven, you must call at 5:30 AM the day before. You must arrive half an hour before departure; one minute late, you’ll go to the back of the line, and your car won’t make it on to the ferry. We took the 8:45 ferry, which left at 8:15 because Main Street in Rockland was going to close for the Lobster Fest parade, and we were in line five minutes early. Maria, Luke, and Michael showed up to welcome Paul and his new wife and stepdaughter coming in at 7:45 and.say goodbye to us.

 

I always get tearful riding away on the ferry through the cool morning, looking back at the harbor with its lobster boats. So many memories of so many summers: Richard and Esther sitting on the porch in the morning, everyone dropping by for coffee and conversation. Children, and all of us, swimming in the quarry. Long talks with Esther over coffee, and her annual Summer Open Studio, where Joe and I always fall in love with at least one painting. Luli at the lobster roast the night before Luke and Lisa’s wedding, sitting on the ground and eating five lobsters plus two tails. Lobster rolls at Greet’s Eats, where the boats pull in and dump their lobsters into the tanks. My nieces and nephews grown into middle age, their children going to college, having children of their own.

 

They are sweet tears of memory and sad tears of loss. Richard died around Thanksgiving five years ago; Luli died two years ago on his birthday, August 16. Only Don and I are left. Every death leaves a hole with a particular shape that no one else can fill. But I’m so grateful to have my two sisters-in-law, Esther and Doris, and that my nieces and nephews have taken me in as a kind of sister. Now we have more family, as Verushka and Leilani join my great-nephew Paul. I hope I will get to know them, and I plan to travel to my magical place for many years to come.