God Is in These Waters
Equipped with a beat-up old sloop and a boatload of literary inspiration, a Mainer-turned-city-slicker sets sail on an epic 2,000-mile journey to rediscover the coast of his youth.
Photos by Porter Fox
1. Kittery N43°04.927', W70°43.381'
Two silhouettes stood at the end of the town pier. An orange streetlight burned behind them. The light reflected off of a silver sedan, the gray siding of Frisbee’s Market, the smooth, black water of the Piscataqua River
There were boats on the river, their bows turned into the ebbing tide. The current submerged lobster pots and tipped the red signal buoy off Seavey's Island at forty-five degrees. In 1820 you could walk across the Piscataqua on the schooners, sloops, barks and brigs moored there. On this night, there wasn’t a soul on the water.
The silhouettes moved over the weathered planking. One was wearing a basketball jersey and shorts that reached his shins. The other had auburn hair and soft brown eyes. She opened a folding chair and sat beside a cooler. The boy set the fishing rods down and peered over the railing at a disassembled boat, bobbing in the river twenty feet below.
“What the hell’s that?” he asked.
“Sailboat,” I a…
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