Day 53 -- All day in Boothbay, Maine -- 0 Miles

Concetta and I spent the entire day getting acquainted with people we may never see again. But for some reason, it just seemed like fate insisted. This morning at 9:00 a.m. we caught the park shuttle to Boothbay, about four miles down the road from our camp, and the driver dropped us right in the middle of town. He promised to pick us up ten hours later, hopefully after we'd had our dinner and were ready to come "home."

Once we were afoot, our challenge was to find something to do for the next two and a half hours until our scheduled harbor cruise was to take place. The day had dawned bright and warm, something new for the northeast we had heard from the locals, and we were well equipment with sunscreen and floppy hats. Concetta chose the direction, and we set off to accumulate our 10,000 steps for the day, and to enjoy the fabulous views of the bay, as well as all the wonderful architecture in and around the town.

Boothbay is really a photographers paradise for all its vibrant, often funky colors. I couldn't help myself, and just fired away at houses, plants, and people at every other step. At one point we came upon a tiny, dead-end lane that seemed to demand our attention. We thought perhaps it might be a private road, but not seeing anyone around, we went ahead and strolled clear to the end of the shady street in hopes of finding a good film location or two. We were involved in shooting between the houses and toward the bay, when a car rolled in and parked about half way to where we were standing. A tall, lanky young man got out and peered over the top of his car at us. He didn't look unfriendly, but I figured he soon be asking us to leave.

But the first words out of the young man's mouth were, "Good morning," which he said with gusto. He then followed up with asking how we were doing, as if we had just exited one of the houses and were going for a stroll. He seemed to have no idea we didn't actually belong there.

Returning his greeting with equal gusto, we walked over to where he was standing. Then, in no more than five minutes, the three of us had launched into a conversation that included where we all lived (he lived in Golden, Colorado), why we all were in Boothbay (he was visiting his girlfriend), what his girlfriend was doing in Boothbay (she was doing a two-year fellowship in health sciences), and where one went for the best food in town (he was happy to tell us his girlfriend's favorite). Before long it was as if we three had known each other for years and had just accidentally run into each other far from home. I don't think we actually got his name, but we shook hands, wished each other safe travels, and then parted as friends. It was wonderfully uncanny, but it was only the start of our very uncanny day.

Leaving the Coloradoan and his picturesque lane, we walked further south along the shore road until we encountered a county electrical crew installing a new power pole in place of an old, weathered one. We only exchanged a few words with one of the young crew members, but the chap was more than happy to tell us "about 1949" when I asked him just how old the older telephone pole was (I had guessed 70 years, which would have been 1946. At this point we thanked him for his information and then let him get back to work watching over the guy up on the lift boom who was actually moving the wires.

But since we would shortly encounter these guys again, I'll continue the story about them now. As we walked back north on the shore road about thirty minutes later we fell into conversation with two other electrical workers who were handling the caution flag work for their big company truck that was partially blocking the street. The scene was so cool, with the big orange and white truck in the background and the flagmen in orange helmets and yellow safety vests, that I asked if I could take their photo.

Once I had done that, we immediately fell into an approximation of the same conversation we had had with the Coloradoan. Where we were from. How come we were in Boothbay. That kind of thing. Then, and I don't remember how exactly, the older of the two men and I started talking about boats. I told him about how I had lived on a a wooden boat for a year, and where that had been. And he told me he liked boats. And I told him about how Ernie Gann had been the noted writer who had owned the boat on which I had lived. He perked up when I told him that Gann had written lots of books, some of which had been made into movies. And then I told him that my favorite book of Gann's was "Song of the Sirens." And he got more excited about potentially reading the book. And naturally I told him that I would just send him a copy if he'd email me his address, and I handed him one of our calling cards.

Well the four of us shook hands, and took more photos, and just had the best time. We really didn't introduce ourselves, but it didn't seem to matter. We had crossed a threshold of human interaction and it felt good and it felt important, and the four of us went away happier for having the shared experience. I hope the guy contacts me for the book as I'd just love to send him one.

But this event really came AFTER our meeting the little old lady with the ruined grass. Earlier, when we had met the first electrical worker who knew the age of the weathered telephone pole, we walked on south until the road ended. As I stood at the edge of the asphalt, I could see that if I could just walk across the property that lay between us and the bay, I could get some nice shots of the boats bobbing next to their buoys. These thoughts had no more than run through my brain when the door to the nearest house was thrown open, and an obviously ancient lady came out on the porch, shaded her eyes with a wrinkled hand, and asked if we'd like to come over and take our photo.

"Yes, of course," we said, and immediately walked down the path toward the house. When we approached, we were warmly greeted by the lady, and wished a good morning, exactly as everyone else had done that we'd met that morning. "Do you mind if I walk over to the breakwater?" I asked her.

"No, no, go right ahead," she said, and waved a hand in that direction. Not one to pass up such a glorious opportunity, I immediately strolled over to the breakwater and started shooting. I could tell as I walked that considerable water had lately been in the lady's yard. At one time the southern part of the yard next to the bay had been lush grass, but now it was mostly mud. Taking note of a small, square deck nearby, I moved in that direction to get some height for my shots.

Meanwhile Concetta and been talking with the lady on her front steps, and now they both came toward where I was shooting. Then we all got into a conversation about the terrible storm that had pounded the bay not long ago, and how her yard had received more flood water when the tide came in, and how it was more water than she had seen in the ten years she had lived there. She told us that a landscaper had promised to come fix the lawn, but there were so many people demanding the same attention that she expected she'd just have to wait her turn.

After that, while the girls talked, I roamed further afield looking for shots, even to the point of trespassing into the neighbor's yard. The lady had just a wonderful home on the bay with views to die for, beautiful mature landscaping, and some of the most incredible granite rock formations at the foot of her yard I've seen on this trip.

About that time the elderly lady's son-in-law came out to see how she was doing, but he looked just as friendly as his mother-in-law. I thought he might be unhappy with us for taking up her time, but he showed no such inclination. Still I thought we better move on, so we all said our goodbyes, waved, and wished each other a great day. I thanked them for allowing me to do photography, and then Concetta and I walked back toward town.

At this point it was time to start thinking about an early lunch. Our boat tour was scheduled for noon, and we had been requested to show up at 11:40 a.m. So we figured that we need to eat at 11:00 in order to make it work. Our goal was to eat somewhere that listed "lobster rolls" on the menu. We had already picked out a very nice prospect, but it turned out that when we got back there a chap with a jackhammer was tearing up the parking lot of the house next door, producing a racket that didn't seem conducive to good digestion.

So we walked until we couldn't hear the jackhammer, then selected a different restaurant. It turned out that our second choice was closed. So, we ended up picking a place at random, which turned out to be the smartest thing we did all day.

First of all, we were the only customers in the place with a staff of at least four to take care of us. Yes, they had lobster rolls, they told as when we asked. And yes, they'd get right on them so we could make our noon cruise. But is was our waiter, young master Steward, who won our hearts. Master Steward had flaming red hair, so of course we immediately launched into a discussion of his lineage. It was Irish, he thought. And so we naturally brought up the topic of genetics, Ancestry.com's test that one could take cheaply, and how at one time MY hair had looked exactly like his.

Now comes the part that you won't believe. Young Master Steward was born in Reno, had lived in Battle Mountain and Winnemucca, all towns in Nevada, and had only come east because his mother came to live with her sister. Naturally we had a bond that was solid from the start. At that point the waitress who had been training Steward (it was his first day as a restaurant employee) came over and jumped into the conversation, saying how she was born in Massachusetts, then moved to Texas, and how she's been living in Maine for the last six years. Before long we were like one big happy, and very chatty family.

But that's not the incredible part. Just about the time we were digging into our lobster roll sandwiches, a couple came in and sat at the counter. They were looking for something to drink. Since we were keeping the wait staff pretty busy taking about everything under the sun, the owner came out to take the English couple's order. I knew immediately that they were Brits when I heard them speak. The owner said, "That's a funny kind of accent. Where are you from?"

The male half of the couple said, "We're from south of London."

And then the Englishman spied the red-haired Master Steward and asked him if he was Irish. The entertainment was about to go into overdrive. Of course Master Steward told them he was, and before we all knew what had happened, we found ourselves in yet another lively conversation about genetics. The Englishman said, "You know that red hair comes from the Vikings."

I piped up and said that I was 38% Irish, according to the Ancestry.com genetics test, and that I had 3% Scandinavian, most likely compliments of the Vikings.

Before long we all were the best of friends. After a short time, the English couple, who had only come in for a glass of ice tea, got up and left. We all said goodbye, we paid our bill shortly thereafter, and then set off for our boat ride. We had just about ten minutes to get there.

The boat was just a tad late boarding and getting started, but before long we were backing out of the slip and getting under way. And then whom should we encounter, but the English Couple sitting in the bright blue and white deck chairs on the fantail. Naturally, we fell right in together and continued our previous conversation from the restaurant.

During the course of the next ninety minutes we four had a truly fabulous and relaxing cruise around the bay, enjoyed each others company immensely, and then ended up taking photos for each other and handing out calling cards so we could stay in touch. The very last thing that Mark and Donna said to us as we finished our cruise, was that we just had to come to Kent (near London) and visit them in the future. As fate would have it, we'd be seeing them much sooner than that.

Our next goal for the day was to visit one of the local t-shirt purveyors and score one or two for my "been there, done that" collection. So we bid Mark and Donna adieu on the quay, and off we went in our separate directions. It took some doing, but we finally came up with a couple of t-shirts I found acceptable, plunked down the cash, and went in search of our next adventure.

This turned out to be ice cream, or so suggested Concetta. Of course, I didn't just want ice cream, I wanted a nice cup of coffee to go with it. This meant that most of the ice cream shops we had seen just wouldn't do. "Well," I suggested, "maybe they've stopped jackhammering at our first-choice lunch restaurant. Let's go see if they have ice cream."

But try as we might, once we got there and read the menu, we could not see where they served both ice cream AND coffee. Just about that time a young woman who had been tending to the restaurant's garden looked up and asked if she could answer our question. We told her of what we were seeking. "We don't have much in the way of ice cream," she said, "but we have wonderful blueberry pie and we can put a dollop of vanilla ice cream on it if you like."

Coffee good?" I asked.

"Best in town," she said.

"That settles it," I said to Concetta. "I'm going for the blueberry pie."

"Better hurry," the gardener said. "There's only two pieces left."

Taking that advice as gospel, we struck out for the front door and were soon ordering our pie and coffee. The manager who sold us the pie told us to grab our own coffee from the urn nearby, then go take a seat on the deck overlooking the bay and he'd bring the pie after he heated it and applied the ice cream to the top.

This we did, and immediately saw Mark and Donna at a far table. Not wanting to seem like we were stalking them, we chose our own table and made to sit down. But the Brits wouldn't hear of it and motioned us over. Then, while they had lunch and we had our mid-afternoon snack, we had just the best time talking about our respective families, our work history, and a hundred other topics. Turns out Mark is a retired "Bobby" and so we sort of had that in common since I had also worked for public safety most of my career.

When we all had finished our food, and got up to leave, Mark and Donna reaffirmed that we should come to southern England some day soon. Mark said he'd show us the London that most folks don't get to see. Coming from a policeman, I suspect that could be downright "blog-worthy." This time the four of us definitely did go our separate ways and we saw no more of this wondrously affable and genial couple, though we're certainly going to miss them.

Okay, at this point it was two hours before we had any designs on drinks and dinner, so we did the only sensible thing we could do -- we went back to the bookstore that we discovered yesterday. It was Concetta who suggested that we find something to read and then go sit on one of the harbor benches for a couple of hours and just enjoy the sun and quiet.

This we more or less did. Of course telling me to pick out A book is like telling someone to eat just one Lays potato chip. For awhile I had three in my hand, but I finally settled on one good-sized history paperback, and one tiny little advice book on the art of memoirs. Concetta never got around to buying a reading book, but did find some gifts in the shop downstairs from the bookshop.

So we read the rest of the afternoon away, I with my memoirs book and Concetta on her IPhone. At a quarter after five we started moving towards our choice of dinner establishments for the evening where we had a nice whiskey sour apiece, a very nice seafood dinner, and quite a stimulating conversation with the young woman who was our server. By the time we left the restaurant we had only scant minutes before the shuttle was due to arrive from the camp, so we sat on a nearby bench and watched the (young) world go by. Concetta remarked that she couldn't understand how the teenage girls could wear so little and still keep warm. I wondered, too, since I definitely was not overly warm in my jeans and long-sleeved shirt. But girls will be girls, I guess.

Now we're back in the RV, baths taken, and things gotten shipshape for tomorrow's adventures, whatever they may turn out to be. I'd like to visit the maritime museum in Bath if we can find it. Other than that, we have no idea where we're going or what camp we may find tomorrow night. But as you can see from today's adventures, our love affair with serendipity has a long time to run. So until next time, we wish you Happy Travels!