New England Monsters of the Deep
Years ago, a representative from a European tourism board described for me, with much excitement, a new travel trend called “wild swimming.”
“It’s a beautiful way to connect with nature in a tactile way,” she said.
I was confused. “So you mean like… swimming in a lake?”
“Exactly!” she said, her already bright smile widening.
I never thought of lake swimming as trendy, or as something that could be perceived as more or less novel, in different parts of the world. Was lake swimming a New England thing, I wondered? Surely this could not be true. (The state of Minnesota, I suspect, would have thoughts on this.) Maybe I was a trend-setter at age twelve, wading into three feet of murky water on a glorified puddle in deep-woods Maine. Who knew?
This conversation made me think about what it means to trendify something that, for so many people, is kind of ordinary. This happens all the time in travel; one person’s selfie background is another person’s front door. I could understand the charm of going to jump in a lake, jokes aside. But despite being something that I love and grew up doing, it struck me that as far as trends go, lake swimming is kind of gross.
It comes with hazards, especially if your entry to the water is from a beach or from the shallows. There is the inevitable lake grass to dredge your way through, its stalks scraping and tangling around your ankles. There are the seasonal algae blooms that float by like wobbly neon green jelly in a lava lamp. There are the water lilies — an endangered species in the US — to pick your way around. There are the floating weeds and rooty bits that get kicked up by boats or animals. This is not to mention the freshwater mussels, their open shells sharp as razors, the chilly spots near the underwater springs, the water fowl nests and beaver dams to avoid, the speeding boats and jet skis, the snails along the shoreline that spread hand, foot, and mouth disease. (One summer, all the kids got it.)
But mostly, there is the muck — a squishy layer of it blanketing most of the otherwise sandy lake bottom, the decomposing detritus of fallen leaves, felled tree branches, dead grass, dead clams. God only knows what else. And it’s icky. When stepped on, its top layer kicks up in little brown clouds around your ankles. It feels slimy underfoot, and in places, the layer is thick. You sink into it. (Cue the recent SNL sketch, “Lake Beach,” which… basically sums it up.)
This substance terrorized the summers of my childhood. In both New Hampshire and Maine, the other vacationing kids and I — sunburned, mosquito-bitten and perpetually wearing half-damp swimsuits — memorized the lay of the lake, mapping in our minds where the gloopiest spots were and could be avoided. There are clues: plants visible above the surface, certain kinds of shadows. We knew where to look, and where not to step.
When I was small, we bore this challenge bravely, barefoot, with some occasional assistance from the surrounding adults who would sometimes go in with waders and rakes to clear the most offensive and stomach-turning spots. One summer when I was about 11, a family with a big bunch of kids showed up at camp with neon-colored water shoes. An astonishing innovation. Our bare soles never touched the dreaded lake bottom again.
Muck, finally, could be avoided. But other things simply can not. To swim in a lake is to understand that you are always sharing it, that no part of it is yours. Some of those things – the hooting loons with fuzzy babies perched on their backs, the blue herons in langorous, slow-motion flight – are incredibly cool. Avoiding them is about preserving their sanctity, not yours. Others are less cool. Snapper turtles, midnight green with square, prehistoric little heads, are capable of taking off a human finger if provoked. The water snakes and crayfish, I simply don’t want to know. When you paddle away from shore, when the water under your feet goes dark from the depth, you must trust what is underneath you. Otherwise you’ll never set foot in a lake. Maybe “wild swimming,” after all, is right.
What I Did in Maine This Summer
Portland
(Shop) Skordo, a shop that carries spices and spice mixes, as well as stylish goods for the kitchen. Does your mom need a birthday gift? This is the place. (We got her a trivet made out of felted, artfully arranged balls of wool and a tea towel with a smart little fishy pattern, in case you were wondering. Both were designed by local artists.)
(Eat) The Gelato Fiasco, which is new to me but not new to the world, serves what I’m pretty sure is the best ice cream in Portland with flavors like Double Caramel and Cookies; Cardamom; and Ripe Mango.
Bath
(Explore) Maine Maritime Museum takes visitors through time from the 18th and 19th Centuries, when schooners and clippers were hammered together by hand on the shores of the Kennebeck River. Today, in almost the same spot, you can see brand new iron destroyers being assembled for the U.S. Navy. Guided boat tours on the river cover many different aspects of the area, including ecology, human history, and military topics.
(Eat) OystHERS Raw Bar & Bubbly, with its neatly fanned-out display of bivalves on ice, offers a pretty sight when you walk in the door, but keep going out to the patio for the really good stuff. River views make this a nice spot for lunch on a nice day.
Wells/Ogunquit
(Explore) It took me way too long to get to a show at Ogunquit Playhouse. A classic summer theater founded in 1933, it casts major Broadway stars in most of its productions and the show quality is impeccable – especially when you consider that you’re a few miles off the beach in Maine and not in Times Square. This summer I saw Guys and Dolls and High Society, two audacious productions that I may cover in a future, theatrically inclined issue of this newsletter.
(Relax) After years of hanging out on the sprawling main beach at Ogunquit and in nearby York, I was ready for a new stretch of sand. Foodbridge Beach sits on a quiet sandbar just offshore. Hop in the (always chilly) Atlantic, or opt for the river side of the sandbar, where visitors come to kayak, canoe, or just float with the current in a tube.
(Eat) Upscale restaurants in the area can be hit-or-miss but I enjoyed the lobster/crab combo roll at MC Perkins Cove, where you can dine on the breezy rooftop with a rugged coastal view.
(Eat) A quirky, only-in-Maine sort of place, Bitter End in Wells has tables in a sprawling garden under lights among a ragtag art collection. The specialty of the house, naturally, is pasta bolognaise.
(Eat) Maine Beer Company in Freeport is known for its beer – many of which are brewed on the premises – but the food here arguably draws even bigger crowds. The focus is pizza, but I had a spicy, salad-y mortadella sandwich that was approximately the size of my head.
(Explore/Relax) A sprawling 19th Century coastal farm turned conservation area, the Wells Estuarine Reserve scratches a specific travel itch – it’s for those who want some enrichment and culture to go along with their lazy beach day. There are exhibitions on area history in the restored farmhouse, plus well-maintained nature trails that run through coastal wetlands and overgrown orchards. The beach here is small but sublime, and especially uncrowded during the week. A minor word of warning for trail walkers like me, who didn’t exactly absorb the meaning of the word “estuary” at first glance – pack your bug spray.
Bethel
(Explore) The town of Bethel is probably best known for its proximity to Sunday River, which is packed with skiers all winter long. The Maine Mineral and Gem Museum, however, is a pretty astonishing diversion and worth the trip here all by itself. A staggering collection of local rocks and minerals is meticulously and lovingly organized in an airy display space. But don’t leave before you get to the top floor, which features one of the world’s largest collections of meteorites, moon rocks, and other treasures from the galaxy.
(Eat) Puzzle Mountain Bakery, just north of Bethel in Newry, has the best whoppie pie I have ever tasted (dense but not heavy, not too sweet). This honor-system roadside stand takes cash and Venmo. You might also want to pick up a pie – I got rhubarb – while you’re there.
Brunswick
(Explore) The museums at Bowdoin College are a great way to spend a day, especially if the weather’s not cooperating. The Museum of Art is their gravitational center, with its collections of antiquities, paintings, and sculptures. After browsing here, head across campus to The Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum with its eye-opening collection covering the people, history, and wildlife of the Arctic. Originally named for two 19th Century alumni who were Arctic explorers, Bowdoin College continues to offer specialized study and research opportunities in this chilly, remote part of the globe. Today, the museum focuses on different topics than it would have addressed at the time of its founding, such as indigenous rights, climate change, and cultural preservation.
A short walk from campus, you’ll find the white, green-shuttered home where Harriet Beecher Stowe moved with her husband – a Bowdoin theology professor – and five children in 1950. The room where she wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin has been restored and is open for visits. Check ahead to make sure the home is open.
For more on Maine…
Lewiston: Dispatch from the Other Maine
I drove into Lewiston on a rainy morning while my sister ran errands and her kids were at school. It reminded me of where I grew up in Northeastern Massachusetts — a long-faded mill town with some lovely 19th century structures and a college that operates almost as its own community in situ. There were other…