Ports End, Maine is a wonderful, sleepy little town on the southern coast of the state, maybe 25 miles or so from the Maine- New Hampshire border. I grew up here, attended elementary, middle and high school in this quiet and isolated town. In high school, as many do, I had plans to relocate to New York, to explore my passion as a musician and play my little sappy tunes to a crowd of hopefully attentive listeners who may be mildly intoxicated. Of course, this never happened. Instead, life happened.
I grew up, spent a year in college up in Orono and dropped out. It hadn’t been my grades, I just felt college wasn’t necessarily my thing. Boy, do I regret that. I took a job as a carpenter’s apprentice, and several years later and a handful of classes, became a carpenter myself. I married young, we were 19. She was this beautiful girl with a French-Canadian background, and her and her parents had found their way to Ports End when she was just a baby. I adored Chloe, she became everything to me. Every time I caught her gaze, I felt the same feeling one gets when hiking to the top of a mountain and absorbing the view..the trees, the birds, the sunset. She was mine, and I was hers.
We had a kid not long after our marriage, our lovely Stephen. He’s 7 now, and although Chloe and I had separated 3 years ago, we do our best to share custody and avoid any awkwardness that might arise from our departure from one another. That’s not why I’m writing this story, though. This is not a memoir. This is meant to be a warning, for those of you who share a passion for the ocean as I do.
Paddle-boarding and surfing became my most valued vices after the separation. I’d spent about six months in the bottle, wallowing over my loss, the love of my life, a hole in my soul I couldn’t imagine ever being filled again. So I tried to occupy my time with more healthy outlets, and what better hobby than a day of exercise out on the great Atlantic? So that’s precisely what I did. I tried to go out as often as I could, strap my board on top of my Rav-4 and park on the side of the road, the woods to my right, where a trail leads me to a hidden beach where I can drop my board in the water and start paddling up the creek. I did this for months without incident. I never worried much about drowning, I didn’t dare venture too far out, the water gets choppy and the current can really do a number on you. So I mostly stuck to the creek, which was maybe 2 and a half football fields in width, with nice houses and docks on either side. It brought me tremendous joy, being out there. I enjoyed the solitude, the sublime serenity of that creek, tranquil and wonderful in every possible way.
It had become such a routine, I would sometimes leave work early to catch high tide so I could spend a few more hours out there. That’s what happened on Tuesday. I finished up the strapping that had to be done at a job site only about 10 miles from the creek. I had my paddle board already strapped to the top of my car the night before leaving work the following morning. I had no interest in wasting any time. High tide was 4:13pm and I was going to be paddling down stream no later than 4. So that’s what I did. Once I approached the roadside this past Tuesday though, I was suddenly hit with this sense of panic. I wouldn’t say impending doom, but I wasn’t quite right. I chalked it up to one of my “heartbreak spells.” That’s what I call it when I miss my wife a little more than usual. Even that didn’t sit right with me though. It didn’t matter. I was on the water in no time, paddling down that stream with a smile that spread ear to ear, but an odd feeling in the back of my mind that I couldn’t quite shake. Maybe I ought to cut this one short, I thought. Or maybe not. Maybe this is exactly where I need to be. I grappled over this for about 15 minutes, until the clouds started rolling in.
I wasn’t nervous, I’ve always loved thunderstorms, and being out on the water during a thunderstorm in the heat of August derives a childlike excitement from my very core. I smiled as the clouds drew in, the fog quickly approaching. “This will make for a hell of an afternoon,” I thought. Shortly after I had time to internalize this thought, the water became uncharacteristically choppy. The fog was thick, and I struggled to keep afloat. I got down on my knees on the board, keeping a better balance, and adjusted my paddle to make for an easier time navigating through the waters. It didn’t take long for fear to arise, as I turned in every direction, not recognizing a single landmark. How could I? The fog was so damn thick I couldn’t possibly notice anything offshore. The rain began to beat down in thick droplets, the heaviest I’d ever seen. If I hadn’t been so panicked, perhaps I may have enjoyed the downpour. I figured it was time to head back, the fog had completely engulfed me and I couldn’t see jack shit. I turned the board around and headed back where I came from, where I thought I came from. I paddled closer to the left, where I’d assume I’d make out the outline of the shore, but there was nothing there. More fog. “What the hell is going on?” I muttered. Had the fog caused me to lose control of my surroundings? Where exactly was I headed? I guided the nose of the board to where I assume I’d hit the shore, the creek itself wasn’t particularly large in width, if I make a 180 degree turn, surely I’d hit land, and I can pick up my board and walk along the shore back to my car. I paddled that direction for 10 minutes, there was nothing. Fog, and more fog. I was nervous before, now I was panicking.
So I make another 180 degree turn, hoping maybe I can reach land by paddling a little further. The water was no unbearably choppy, and my arms were starting to feel the burn. I’d been in good shape from the exercise I’d committed myself to these last few months, but I wasnt quite sure how much longer I could take. That’s when I saw a light, through the fog, approaching me. I nearly fell off the board, happy as a pig in shit, I let out a little chuckle. I wasn’t sure what the light was, maybe it was a house on the shore, maybe it was the coast guard.
I desperately paddled in that direction, too eager to discover the source of the light. As I paddled closer, the light grew larger. I was close to safety, now. Just a little further. Then I saw it, the outline of what looked like a clipper ship. A sailing vessel? I could see the masts, three I believe. And the sails, what could this possibly be? It must be a tour, taking a 19th century ship out for a tour for a bunch of interested maritime enthusiasts. That was fine by me, as long as they saw me and rescued me from the foggy mess I’d gotten myself in. The ship approached, absolutely massive in size. You see pictures of these, maybe you’ve even seen one from a distance. But when you’re 10ft away, it’s a daunting presence. I yelled and cried out to get the attention of the passengers on board. To my luck, a light was shown in my direction.
“On a day such as this, ye best not be out here, lad.” A voice aboard the ship spoke out to me. Odd, I thought. These tour guides are really doing their part to play up these characters, although the man aboard had what sounded vaguely like an Irish accent. Strange, I thought
“Well, come along then. We’ve got to get ye out of this mess. Best you not be out here from now, eh?”
I couldn’t see his face. A rope was thrown in the water, I grabbed on pulling myself to the ship. I placed my hands on the cold wood of the ship, “my god, it’s ancient.” I said. “How’d you manage to get this bad boy out on the water?” I said, laughing. There was no response.
“How do I get up there?” I asked, a little more fear in my voice now. A ladder began to make it’s way down to me. I gladly latched on, with one hand I grabbed my board, which wasn’t very heavy, and with the other, I climbed up this water logged ladder that looked as though it’d snap at any moment. When I reached the top, completely exhausted, i tossed my board on the deck of the ship, after unstrapping it from my leg. I climbed over and collapsed, leaning my back up against the side of the ship. I looked around. Dozens of men stared back at me. But these men, these were old men. Ancient men. I understood now, this was no tour ship. There were no eager tourists desperate for a chance at a one in a lifetime ride aboard a 200 year old clipper ship. No. This was the real deal, and somehow, in that fog, I had landed myself in a world centuries before I was born.
“What the fuck is this?” I screamed. “Who are you? Where are you from??”
The men looked at each other, almost in astonishment. Several burst out laughing.
“Quite the breeches you’ve got on lad, and the stockings, where have they gone?” The Irishman spoke, in a sarcastic tone.
These men were wearing dark blue waistcoats, dark brown pants with leather boots. They wore striped shirts, tucked in with a belt buckle to ensure they stayed in place. Wide brimmed top hats around their heads, pipes hanging out of their mouths. Where the fuck was I. When, was I.
“You look ill, have some tea.” Another man spoke. He approached with a dented tin can, steam rising from the cup. I sipped, desperate for any liquid, burning my tongue. They continued to stare.
“Where are we?” I asked, trembling.
“Oh, a mile or so from Augusta.” One man said.
Augusta? That couldn’t be. I’m from Ports End, Augusta is about 150 miles from my home. I didn’t say that though. I nodded, taking another sip.
“What year is it?” I asked, sternly.
They looked amongst each other, and burst with laughter.
“I believe a little rest wouldnt hurt, lad.”
The Irishman helped me up, and guided me to the cabin. I couldn’t tell you much about what I saw in that cabin, lanterns, maps, books, and sacks of hay. I collapsed on one of the cots. Damp and cold, with nothing to cover me, I drifted out of consciousness after hearing the men aboard repeat with laughter the questions i had asked. I fell asleep almost instantly.
I awoke to a stranger shaking me awake.
“Hey man!! Hey, look at me? Are you ok? Jesus Christ. Cindy! Call an ambulance!”
Before answering, I spent a moment observing my surroundings. I was lying on a beach, my board beside me.
“What year is it?” I asked, barely getting the words out, some saltwater trickling down my cheeks as I spoke.
“It’s 2022, man. Jesus, you’re banged up. Help is on the way, pal. What happened??”
I..I don’t really know..” I said, “where are we?”
“Bangor. You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be alright.”
Bangor? I thought to myself. What if..then I was finally able to catch a glimpse of the man I was speaking to. It was the Irishman.