My Time Nicaragua

I woke up before the alarm went off. Twice. Excited by the prospect of leaving Maine and my desperately small college behind in search of waves and 70 degree nights on the Nicaraguan coast, I forgot to brush my teeth as I grabbed my backpack and checked for the essentials: passport, wallet and camera. Like an overexcited 11 year old coming home from his first sleepover, I fell asleep in the passenger seat of Dan's Highlander somewhere north of Portland on our drive towards Logan Airport. Just in case our excitement hadn't fully manifested in my near sleepless night filled with fantasies of playing in the surf and eating fish, we arrived at the airport four hours early.

Traveling with only our backpacks and boards, we passed through customs in Managua without a question about our destination or return flight. After a two and a half hour cab ride on dirt roads through Nicaraguan pastures and farmland, we got our first glimpse of the arid shoreline and heard the first clap of swell rolling in across the Pacific. For the next week and a half, two of my closest friends (my sixth-grade locker partner Will and my college roommate Dan) and I played like lost boys.

Disconnected from computers, cell phones, and work, we wandered the beaches of Nicaragua. At high tide we surfed. During the heat of the day we hid in hammocks in the shade. When our restlessness got the better of us, we scrambled to the thundering waves of the sea across the beach's sweltering sand only to return to the protection of our hammocks after force-filtering a few gallons of salt water through our sinuses. Hundreds of miles away from the nearest umbrella-protected drink, we ate our fill of fish and beans and rice. We talked with Ex-pats and Euros over the cheap national beer about books, life and waves as stars rose, uninfected by light pollution.

Cows roamed the beaches, running from whitewater and picking at pieces of washed-up debris in search of food.

To quote Johnny Utah, "Nice Point break. Long Workable Rides."

Dan watching the waves close out at high tide.

The trustful watchdog.

Some deceased mollusk.

Will points to a set of waves pitching upwards like frost heaves on a New England country road.

Twenty years of civil wars and numerous campaigns for land reform left the coast line peppered with vacant houses and undeveloped stretches of land. For better or worse, the turbulent political and economic climate in Nicaragua has kept development of the coastline to a bare minimum.

In the distance white spray marks the peeling of waves on the reef.

A Nica line fisherman.

Our arrows in their quiver.

Two lost boys walking down the beach towards a reef break.

My hair got lighter and my skin darkened as the salt, sand and sun penetrated everything I had. Adhering to the, "No News is Good news" ethos, I went incommunicado.

Barefoot, we ran down the beaches excited by the sound of waves and motivated by the heat of the sand.

A horse at sunset.

As the sun set, Will and I walked out on a point to watch waves crash in. Scrambling around tidepools we edged our way farther out on the rocks. In the distance, Dan hooted as he dropped in on a waist-high wave.

"I caught my first tube today, sir" Will yelled back at Dan as he bent over and fingered a flat stone out of a crack. With a deft flick of the wrist, he skipped the stone across the tide pool towards the sinking sun. I was on vacation.

Here are some more links,
Right By the Beach (Picasa),
Lost Boys on the Beach of Nicaragua (Picasa).

A Farewell To Winter

"The snow is gone and it's not coming back," a baker at the farmers market told me recently. Impressed by his beard and suspenders, I took his word as gospel. The rivers are humming with water from a mild winter's snow. Dead set on maximizing their lawns, Mainers are raking up gravel and sand deposited by the county's army of plows.

I live in a shanty in a shanty town.

Signs warning of thin ice pepper the edges of lakes as open water slowly gains confidence around the perimeter and then spreads towards the center like kids at a middle school dance.

Tucker reading out on the ice on one of the last days of winter.

For Sale by Owner.

As you read this I will be in Nicaragua, playing in 85 degree water like a seven year old at Chuck E. Cheese.

Protecting a Mainer's back yard, these ice shanties won't see redeployment for another nine months.

Things weather fast here.

Chirping birds in the morning are bitter sweet. I will miss the reality of Maine winters that shatters the romantic ideals of snowball fights and warming up by the fireplace, but at the same time makes the bonds to seasons more long lasting and genuine. All good things must come to an end, and, like my time in Maine, a new opportunity is here.

Here are some more links,
A Bend in the River (Picasa),
My Last Time on Ice (Picasa),
Up Here We Take Canadian Quarters (Picasa),
Shanty Town (Picasa).

Maine's Largest General Store

The sign says it all: Guns, Wedding Gowns and Cold Beer. Located on ME 32 fifteen miles east of Augusta, the Hussey's General Store provides central Mainers with all things required for life in Maine. Open for business for 87 years, the store has changed little in the face of competition from chain stores like Walmart.

Many times on my journeys throughout Maine I have stopped by Hussey's to poke around the store's 30,000 square feet of retail space. Sometimes I buy venison sausage, other times I chat with the sporting goods salesmen, and occasionally I frantically search the store's countless aisles for a restroom sign. The sheer texture of the store and its juxtaposing goods always catch my eye regardless of my reason of stopping by.

The tools have changed, but the story hasn't.

Wedding Gowns...

Cold Beers... PBR long necks are as rare as stores like these.

Guns...

Customers.

Vintage military canteens and leather shoelaces.

Every color of the rainbow.

All the Carhartts you could ever want.

Just in case you have enough lamps to necessitate gallons of kerosene.

Do you feel lucky?

Woof.

Hussey's has a great selection of Emerson of Maine Boots.

I couldn't think of a better place to buy the supplies for a shotgun wedding. The guns and the gowns are literally 30 feet apart.

Anyone visiting Maine should make the trek to the Hussey's General Store. They are a dying breed and as much a part of Maine as Bean boots and lobster fishing.

Here are some more links,
Hussey's General Store (Picasa),
Hussey's General Store.

Gluttony by the Campfire

Months of brutally cold nights starting at 4 pm make you appreciate lengthening days and warming temperatures with the same fervor as seeing your special lady friend, or special man friend, for the first time in months. In this case, I hadn't seen warm evenings in five months and took to the opportunity of spending time with close friends and grilling meats like an aging Trustifarian to a Ralph Nader book signing. Needless to say I was excited.

On Friday afternoon we stocked up at the local supermarket with the essentials: a few bottles of wine, sausages, rum and ginger beer, ground bison, chips, various hot condiments, chicken breasts, zucchinis and some Coors lattes, and headed to Tucker's house in Belgrade Lakes for an evening of gluttony by the campfire.

Kick starting spring one dark and storm at a time.

Zucchini and olive oil and chicken and ginger sauce.

As the sun crept below the horizon, we fed the fire and enjoyed the fruits of the grill. The last rays of light hit clouds coming off the coast, giving everything a pinkish hue. Conversations meandered from place to place like a group of unaccompanied ten-year-olds at a summer carnival.

Illuminating the grill with fire light.

Tending the grill.

Despite flirting with the mid 40's during the day, the temperature dropped well below freezing after sunset making the fire much more than an aesthetic contribution to the evening's festivities.

A taste of the Rockies on the lakes of Maine.

Grilling greed: premature consumption of burger or other meat that requires further cooking.

Lubricated by pounds of meat and a few beverages, we watched for occasional shooting stars, cussed about girls, whittled sticks and went on various outings in search of firewood. Our numbers faded as one member of the half circle surrounding the fire pit after another left for the comfort of bed and the promise of the next day's activities.

Here are some more links,
Gluttony by the Campfire (Picasa),
By the Campfire (Picasa),
BBQ from the South (ART).