I wonder why my grandfather has named his lobster boat Comfort. Isn’t that a woman’s name? Or a feeling? Maybe he feels protected—certain he is out of danger being carried by a female sea-vessel into the vast ocean. 

Comfort dips right and left while anchored at a lone mooring in Frenchmen’s bay. Gentle ocean ripples caress and lap at her wooden mass. I kick off my flip-flops and wade into the shallow water. It’s so cold my feet instantly go numb. I caress the salty-water with my fingertips and wade toward her minding the sharp, barnacled rocks by following an erratic path of soft muck. 

My mother bathes in the sunshine at the bay’s edge. Her confidence in my young-self invigorates mine. Never a warning like, “Be careful,” only a scolding, “You should’ve been more careful,” after.

The icy water of low-tide reddens the skin of my thighs as I reach the stern. I trace the layers of painted letters with the wetness on my fingertips. The faded black darkens at my hydrating touch—Comfort. 

My grandfather and his eldest son, first-mate Forrest, carry full buckets of bait to the small dingy whose bow sinks into the soft earth at the shore. The smell of rotten fish wafts through the air. I pinch my nose with slippery fingers and make my way back to my napping mother. I find a small space on the corner of her white sheet. My brother, Casey, crouches over the rocks playing with the toy trucks he brought. 

The two men pull their folded rubber boots up to the tops of their thighs. They wade in pushing the small dingy through the calm sea. The tide is so low they walk out to Comfort, just like I did. Forrest climbs up and my grandfather passes him the buckets of bait. They release Comfort’s ropes and tie the dingy in her place. Comfort’s engine spits and sputters. She drifts dangerously close to shore as they struggle to get her started. She finally responds—deep and throaty growls spit puffs of dark smoke into the air. Uncle Forrest whips her around starboard sending round waves at us. He salutes a silent goodbye with a flat hand pressed to his forehead.

I rub my palm against the sticky pitch on my elbow—evidence of yesterday’s tree climb. My sleeping-mother breaths heavily. I pull at the pitch on my elbow and succeed at removing a small amount which glues itself to my fingers instead. I pull it up to my nose and inhale the sweet scent of pine. 

I lie back onto the rocks warmed by the sun. Long brown tree-trunks surround Frenchmen’s Bay. Tall and muscular pine-trees who remind me of guardsman of the tranquility here. The limbs sway with elegance as a cool breeze puffs off the ocean. I imagine the tickle of the pointy foliage against my skin and the whisper of the wind through their branches. “Stay and play a little bit longer,” they say. 

I inhale the pine smell again; it reminds me of a patient and trusted friend whose exquisite perseverance has earned her needles their lovely color green that remains all winter. An undying beauty and strength shared and imprinted on her Maine people.

Without warning, the warm sun is masked by a cool fog rolling onto the shore. It moves fast and I imagine the fog as mother nature’s ghosts crowding out the sun. Our restfulness is replaced with arousal. My mother jumps up and dashes for her car. I follow with all of her belongings and Casey.

We return to my grandparent’s home at First South Street wrapped in a shared white sheet across the front seats. The fog followed us. The air has thickened by the blur of the clouds settled onto the earth. I realize my flip-flops remain at the bay and will undoubtedly be lost at sea when the tide comes in.

The squeaking screen-door welcomes us into our family’s un-named home—a place more befitting of the title Comfort. The smell of fresh coffee and wood-fire wraps around me. I climb under the couch afghan. I stare at the colorful stained-glass window high above the wooden set of stairs. My eyes become heavy. 

I wake later that evening with Casey snuggled close beside me. Voices winced with distress come from the dining-room. I slink out from the afghan careful not to wake my brother and make my way to my grandmother’s lap. She sits at her place at the top of the table with a clay cup filled with black coffee. She spoons in two heaping scoops of sugar and pours enough cream to turn the dark brown coffee to a light caramel. She stirs the contents into a miniature whirlpool then clicks the spoon on the side of the mug. I lean in and wrap my lips over the edge and suck in the first sweet sip.

My grandmother and their other four children surround the oval dining-room table. The conversation around me unfolds the cause of today’s ruin. My grandfather and uncle have not returned from their afternoon of lobstering. The sky is now black and the fog remains thick and blinding. The only conclusion circling the group is certain drowning. And suddenly the grumpy old man they each fear and sometimes hate becomes loved and dearly missed.

I’m not worried. My grandfather and uncle are cradled in the ocean by a boat named Comfort, and in her arms, they will safely be. I am sure of it. I have not one ounce of doubt. It is impossible to imagine that a man so hardened and adept at survival would do anything but. 

I listen to the doubts served on the long table that night and I imagine I am old and wise enough to tell them the truth. The truth of who we are, who he is, and how there is no way he won’t find his way home from being lost at sea in the fog.

Being adrift with a camouflaged navigation system would never be the end of him. This cannot be the first time he has been on the ocean with zero visibility off all directions of the stern, port, and starboard sides. A man such as him would know the normal direction of the waves toward shore. He would understand the call of the seagulls. He would hold firm until the giant pine-trees welcome him back to port.  

His tribal ancestors, our small town—BarHarbor, the women and men who prove each day that oppression only exists if it is allowed. The shared understanding that hard work is a daily necessity and anyone is capable of it. His foster family’s cruelty forced him to harness his survival instincts. My grandmother, Gloria, wrapped him in her able arms and gave him five children. He will find his way home.

Twenty-four hours of fog and no sightings of them by the Coast Guard turns to forty-eight. He is still lost. Could I have been wrong?

I walk the length of First South Street and peer toward the town bustling with tourists. Each summer our narrow streets and favorite restaurants become cluttered with unfamiliar faces and we squeeze our way through town trying to go about our lives. Today, I feel grateful for the screened-in porch painted blue where I can sit and wait. I lay on the brown-orange couch stained with spilled lemonade and ice-cream and trace the constellations of cigarette burns in the fabric. I press my feet against the screened wall. If I push hard enough I can touch the restaurant next door that has grown into our space with my toes.

I hear my mother’s worried voice inside. I go to her. She holds a cigarette in one hand and a tissue in the other. I caress her long brown hair and pull it back from her face. She and her older sister debate the death of their father. Their eyes fill and drain tears down their cheeks. I pat and pull her hair to caress her worries away with my touch. 

I still believe their worry is in vain.

A loud ring of the house-phone brings everyone to their feet. My grandmother presses the receiver to her ear. I fix my eyes on the swaying cord and wrap my arms around my waist. My mother hangs onto the shoulders of her sister. Casey sits alone on the floor with a matchbox car in each hand.

My grandmother listens.

She turns from us.

We rush to face her and hope for good news. Her cheeks redden and her eyes close. Tears drip onto her white blouse.

I cannot believe it. I was wrong. He is lost forever.

I shake my head. “No, my grandfather could not, ever, be lost at sea. I will furiously disagree with whoever says different.”

“They’ve been found,” says my grandmother.

“He should’ve been more careful,” says my mother.

Tina L. Hendricks