100 Days at Sea

I set out to paint in oils for the first time in over 25 years, wondering what I would remember, fearful of what I have forgotten, but most of all, curious about how a quarter century of experiences would color my canvas. As creatives, we collect our stories every second we’re walking through our days – and through more than a few strange dreams – until something starts to gel in the back of our minds; a pattern, a symbol, a truth. Once we see a notion erect itself before us, fully formed and demanding life, we smash it, dissect it, and break it down for parts such that we can communicate the vision in our own language, with our own words, chords, pirouettes, and pigments.

It is in this process, with the room steeped in the scent of turpentine, silence overtaking the television, the furnace, steps in the house, traffic outside, here in the cocoon of creating, my brushes rush to cover the glaring whiteness of a new thought. I tweak the light overhead, then tweak the shadows in front of me. I brave bold colors and cower in timid brush strokes. I wrestle, struggle, making a thousand decision each minute, tire, deem the day’s labors acceptable, and put down my brush.

100 times.

This is “21 Boats: Memories of Ogunquit.” The product of an early morning stroll along the high road separating a quiet marina harboring the sleeping lobster boats from the furious sprays, crashing waves, and churning tides, as far out to sea, a hurricane crawls up the coast of Maine. Down below me, beyond the salt-soaked railing of the boardwalk, the rising sun casts shadowy balusters to dance in repeating staccato across the serenity of safe harbor. Grubby little dinghies, clustered around an undulating floating dock, wait for the lobstermen to row out to their boats.

As I had observed for several days of this passing storm, some men would brave the rough seas, to pull up their traps, and later, return to hoist their catch up to the harbor master’s shack, but most seemed to calculate the risk differently. And so, each morning, the dinghies would remain at the dock, softly bobbing as they nudged into each other with a soft scratch or a hollow clunk, as though gossiping and grousing yet hunkered together to wait out the storm.

For 100 days, I relived the scene, smelled the fresh-churned water, the wet rocks, the sea life, and thought of the workers, their skill, the danger, and most of all, my love of lobster. But, eventually, I had to come home. Clean my brushes, sort my pigments, and wipe down my art table having experienced that world, given back what I could, and put down in color, who I was and what I thought – what I believed – at that moment in time. A beginning, middle, and end, and another beginning. That said, I have also finished the 10th installment in The Admiral Inn Mysteries and Adventures, A Wolf in the Cove. It’s available in ebook and paperback. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G83JJ4VG

Thank you to everyone who has already picked it up. If you like it, leave a review. If you have questions or comments, send a note. Here’s to happy thoughts for 2026!