Portland

“Why are you doing that?” I ask as Maggie stacks rocks that she has dug up on shore.

“It’s art,” she says plainly, “Beautiful, natural art.”

“You know,” I begin, “Hikers do that in the mountains, to help mark trails so they don’t lose their way. Well, that’s what Steve told me anyway.”

“Well, Steve is the expert on all things outdoors,” Maggie says, smiling at her creation.

We had finally made it to Maine. Maggie, had begged me to stop in Portland. It was hard to not give in to Maggie sometimes. Besides, after being trapped in a car for so long, it was worth the fresh air.

We both shiver, as it had been quite some time since I had ventured out of the blazing Pacific beach sun, and neither of us had climatized to the cold weather. It was particularly hard for Maggie, as this was her first time into my summer world.

At first, I had my doubts about bringing someone along to my summer retreat. But there’s just something about Maggie, an indescribable little trait that makes her necessary for any adventure. And summers are the most adventurous part of the year.

She sits back on the wet, clumpy sand as she admires her handiwork. She has insisted on wearing a bathing suit, even though there was no chance of anyone splashing through the water in the chill. It was one of those red retro swimsuits, that you’d see on a pin-up girl from the forties, no strings, lots of coverage, but undeniably adorable. She has on a floppy red hat to match, and a pair of cat-eye glasses we found at an old roadside antique store in Charleston. Without her noticing, I snapped a picture of her, leaned back on her elbows, watching the surf, my own personal forties pin-up girl.

It was nice to have the camera along. I intended to document the entire summer in a spectrum of black and white. Just me, the camera, and Maggie. While I clean the glass on my camera, Maggie gets up to frolic in the waves, splashing and chasing the water like a child.

“Rob!” She cries out, “Come on, the water’s lovely!”

“I’m good,” I shout back. I'm having too much fun watching her.

Maggie returns, soaked from the waist down. I offer a towel to her and she wraps it around herself, retiring next to me on the sand. We both sigh as we gaze out over the rippling water. I haev this odd sense of feeling sad about it too, like a farewell. Maggie wriggles into a pair of cutoff jeans, sand clinging to her back. I offer to brush it off.

We carry our stuff back to the car, looking out one last time at the sandy beach before piling in. I start the engine as Maggie finishes getting dressed. She has borrowed one of my Joy Division t-shirts that I had shrunken in the wash to put over her bathing suit, and she climbs into the passenger seat.

“Okay Mags,” I said, “I give you full DJ powers, you are somehow much better at it than I am.” Which was the truth. Maggie has this uncanny ability to find a song that went along to any setting or moment. While we drove around Salem, she insisted on playing Gary Numan’s Pleasure Principle, and strangely, it was just perfect.

The backseat of the car is a jungle. We had crammed the trunk with our suitcases, camping gear, and supplies for the cabin, but the backseat was where we kept the stuff Maggie thought of as most important, the music and books.

She digs through a dilapidated cardboard box that had originally been made for a beer company somewhere in Humbolt. I mostly could tell due to the giant pot leaf on the box’s faded exterior. Maggie emerges sometime later looking pleased.

“Thought I hadn’t brought this,” she says triumphantly holding up a Bahaus cd with a crack down the middle of the plastic case and putting the disc into the player.

“Now, I know this song will be just absolutely Portland,” she says, sitting back, and switching her cat-eye glasses for a pair of bright red Ray-Bans she has exhumed from the glove compartment. As I pull out, The Man With the X-Ray Eyes begins to play.

I knew Maggie was right as we drive into the city. The song is Portland.