“Do you want to take a detour?” Dean asks me. “Throw some caution to the wind?” We’re just over the Penobscot Narrows Bridge, flying down Route 1, straight through Verona Island. I glance at the clock—it’s just after 10am and we’ve been on the road for a little less than an hour…our destination is still at least three hours away yet. I’m hesitant to change our plans, as I was settling into an NPR Articles of Interest rabbit hole, but this whole trip has been about drowning caution in the sink, let alone throwing it to the wind.
“What did you have in mind? As long as we’re back in time for the concert tonight.”
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.” Dean turns off the GPS, that’s now yelling at us for following the wrong route and instead continues along Route 1. “Have you ever been to Acadia National Park?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been.” I try to recall if I’ve ever gone to Maine’s iconic park. It’s practically a rite of passage if you grow up here, but I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever been. I was not outdoorsy to say the least. “Have you?”
“My father grew up in Bar Harbor, near the park entrance. We would visit my grandfather during summer break, and he’dbring us to the park. You know, fishing and hiking and all that. They’d drag me along while I sat and read a book. Have you ever gone hiking or anything?” I imagine young Dean with his nose buried in a book while on a fishing boat or climbing up a mountain. Something about it is reminiscent of my own childhood.
“My parents are dentists. They were never really into that kind of stuff,” I say.
“Me either.” Dean laughs. “But still, I’ve gone hiking at least. I think there’s a place you’d like to see.”
“If it’s a long hike, you might have to carry me.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Dean chuckles. “I think we can drive right up to it, anyhow. No hiking involved.”
“Are you going to tell me about this place you want to take me to?” I ask.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“You’re not going to abandon me in the park, are you? Or push me off a cliff?”
“Have a little faith in me, McKinney. I wouldn’t abandon you on federal property.”
“But state property is okay?” I laugh facetiously.
“Absolutely not,” Dean’s eyes crinkle as he squints at the road. “Okay, navigator, let’s go.”
We’re lucky that the main park road is cleared of snow from the most recent storm—there’s a single lane that cars can drive through and snow on either side of the roads. I pray to whoever is up there that our minivan doesn’t get stuck or slide on some ice, otherwise we’d really be fucked.
Dean takes it slow on the road, there’s some skiers and snowmobilers that pass us. The trees are magnificently tall, a triumph of nature, even when they’re bare because of the bittercold and wind. There are a few evergreen trees that stick out like jewels of color among the rest of the colorless landscape. I watch them slowly pass by as Dean carefully guides the van down loops and curves.
Icicles hang from roadside rock formations, and they look so sharp and heavy, if one fell, it’d surely be the end of your story. They’re so thick and long, they look like frozen waterfalls. Some are crystal clear or blue, but some are vibrant shades of yellow and green. Like a kid, I want to reach out and yank one off the rocks, but they’re taller than I am.
The sky is a clear, sparkling shade of blue. The sun is out, shining just for us, and I feel its warmth on the bridge of my nose, though it’s absolutely frigid and not a thing melts. The light bounces across the windshield in a round, circular pattern as Dean pulls into a small lot along the side of the road.
I step out of the van, ice and snow crunching underneath my feet. Dean grabs my hand as he leads me through the lot to a frozen staircase embedded in the cliffside. It juts right up to the ocean, making me crane my neck to get a better look. There are a few others milling about, but no one ventures quite as far down as we do.
The ocean crashes relentlessly on the frozen landscape—the waves are magnificently vicious. They wouldn’t hesitate to swallow you all and freeze you to death. I’m hesitant to approach any further as the walkway is awfully icy—in fact, it’s entirely iced over— but Dean guides me down the steps to a landing in the staircase. His grip on me is iron-clad and keeps me from slipping, but if I managed to fall, he’d go with me.
“It’s almost high tide,” Dean tells me, almost yelling in my ear. “This is the best time.”
“The best time for wh—” I’m doused with bitter, ice-cold sea spray. I’m stunned, but the grin on Dean’s face says it all.
“Are you awake yet?” He laughs, although I can barely hear him now over the roar of the waves.
“Holy shit,” I grumble, ice likely forming on my eyelashes. I thank every higher power that only my face is visible.
“Listen.” He pulls me into his arms, our coats swishing against each other. It’s a thunderous, roaring sound. It’s deafening, and it’s coming from the sea crashing against the cliffs. I think he’s laughing, from the way his chest is bouncing against mine, and the upturned curve of his lips. Another blast of sea spray hits our faces, and I can’t help but laugh back.
“Okay, let’s get out of here. It’s fucking cold,” He says and pulls me towards the railing again. We climb to the very top of the steps, overlooking the cliffs and water, far from the freezing sea water.
“What is this place?”
“Thunder hole,” Dean explains. “Where the waves are so loud, they sound like thunder.” His gloved hand squeezes mine.
“It’s a beautiful view.” I scan the scenery. It’s something out of an art gallery photograph. The ocean is bluer than I ever thought it could be on this side of the continent…it’s hard to tell where water meets sky.
