It’s been almost twenty years since I’ve walked up and down the Bearskin Neck. Rockport, MA, used to be a quaint little fishing town, lazily asleep in the shadow of her big sister Gloucester, home to a large fleet of swordfish trawlers – the very same boats that were made famous in "The Perfect Storm."
Marie and I will be there next week, taking an unexpected but well-needed break and hooking up with our loved ones from Quebec. The Massachusetts coast is almost half-way from both Montreal and New York; they will drive down, we will ride Amtrak’s Northeast Regional train to Boston and on.
Expect tales of early morning runs along the beach and freshly caught Maine lobster simply boiled and served with butter and garlic. Some pictures of course. 360° panos. Maybe an HD video, its soundtrack infringing as always on sacred copyright laws. I will plea fair use.
The air will smell of ocean stories and kelp. It will cleanse our souls and CMOS sensors. Our circadian rhythms will once more tune themselves up to sunrise and the bird-announced return of fishing boats. It should be sweet. It will be fun. It has been so deeply anticipated.
It can’t really be justified, though. Unless we live by the all-too-used credo of making the moment count since this is all about the ride, not the destination. After all, if now didn’t taste good, how could then be flavorful?