My first landing zone here in Maine, Treasure Island, rests on a small point of land, facing south near the mouth of Little River in East Boothbay. It was where, serendipitously, my life, as I have come to know it, began. Oddly enough, in the scheme of things, my string of good luck and lack of game plans, once again gave me another gift.

In 1975, Phyllis Washington owned Treasure Island and ran it as a bed and breakfast sort of venture, well before the surge of B’n B transformations got up a full head of steam. I will say, also, that Phyllis loved Maine and could not wait each year to return to her special place. Phyllis and I were teachers at Montclair High School in Montclair, New Jersey. Even though we were both part of the science department faculty, we seldom interacted. She went her way and I went mine. So, when she popped her head into a classroom I was closing down after my fourth year of teaching, I could not have imagined what lay ahead.

“Mitch,” she said, “are you doing anything for the summer?” Whoa! Figured I was in for it but replied, “I don’t have any plans Phyllis, why?” “My husband John has some complicated and ongoing real estate transactions in the works and he won’t be able to help me open our place in Maine, and I wondered if you might be able to help?” Hmmm. To this day, I don’t know why I said I could give her a hand, but I did.

One week later, when I rounded the corner for the first glimpse out Little River toward White Island and the open ocean, it was a done deal. The next day, I called the superintendent of schools at central office and told him that I would not be returning the next school year. I was toast and I knew it. There was no way the summer break was going to be enough time for me to recharge my batteries and go back to teaching properly. I recalled a comment once shared by Professor Eugene Thibadeau during a college Philosophy of Education course. “Teaching, when done right, is a very emotionally dissipating occupation.” It was time to move on.

So, on the shores of Little River, I began a new life. I met great people and got to make special friends in the neighborhood. The Dexter Rumsey family (Barbara included) was just over the bridge at a cottage nearby. It turned out that they were originally from a town very close to where my mother had lived near Buffalo. Dexter had a high-pitched kind of squeaky voice with knowledge and experience oozing from every pore. He forgot more about nautical things than I could ever know.

Ralph Knapp hauled the float at Treasure Island. He was a bit gruff but eventually we waved and I gave him a hand hauling the float. Winfield “Cooney” Dodge lobstered out of a skiff and cruised by from time to time. We chatted and when I mentioned that I grew up in Pennsylvania, he said his wife was from Pennsylvania, but a town he was sure I didn’t know: Punxsutawney. We scrimmaged preseason football against their team.

Sam Poore was a sort of handyman for Phyllis and John, so we crossed paths often. His daughter Paula was a chamber maid who helped me learn how to prepare rooms for new guests. Bob and Marion Glaesner were from Michigan but they had a cute little cottage on the Damariscotta River side of the point and were frequent visitors at Treasure Island.

I missed the kids but knew that my decision to stay in Maine was the right thing. I still hear from students to this day and some have actually come to visit.

Teaching was a great experience. I learned a lot. Maine saved me, though, and for that I will always be grateful.