FREAKS AND PEAKS: AN ISLAND ADVENTURE

The summer misadventures continue with a trip to Peaks Island, which is off the coast of Portland, Maine.  When I say "off the coast," I am quite serious as the island is visible from Portland, and Portland is visible from the island.  It's a fifteen-minute ferry ride from dock to dock.

I am on the ferry with one of my brothers and his family.  My bro and his boys are going to bike the island and go exploring.  His wife and I are going to walk partway around the island, meet them for lunch, then trek back to the dock area and perhaps grab an ice cream or a beer ... or both.  Once the bicycling explorers take off, my SIL and I start down the road with me sharing points of interest:  bike rental place (not today), golf cart rental place (too long a line), umbrella cover museum (no idea but I'm reasonably certain I'll find out eventually), school, fire department, etc.

As we are walking down the street attempting to chat, a family suddenly appears next to us: mom, dad, toddler, and shrieking infant in a stroller, and when I say "shrieking," I think the poor baby is being stabbed.  Apparently it does this a lot because mom and dad seem completely unaware that there are tourists and renters and homeowners and construction workers and rescue personnel all rushing to the sidewalk to assist in whatever heinous crime is happening right there in River City ... er ... Peaks Island.  But no, nothing is amiss, lah-dee-dah, the parents just let the infant howl in extreme distress, talking over it loudly as if they haven't a care in the world.

SIL and I decide to cross the road and walk on the other sidewalk.  Ah, semi-relief.  Until, of course, the family also crosses the street.  We try to walk a little faster.  They also start walking and wheeling a little faster.  Holy crap on a Creamsicle.  We hesitate, stop walking, allow the family to pass, and wait a decent amount of time until the decibels of the howling reach a level acceptable to ears (somewhere just above standing next to a jet engine).

We continue walking, finally losing sight and sound of the family.  There's a corner coming up with two ways to go: right up the tarred road or left down a dirt path toward the ocean.  As we come around the bend, there is the family, happily standing as if anticipating our arrival.  (Cue creepy music here.)  SIL and I decide to turn down the dirt path.  Surely the family won't want to push the heavy stroller of bawling flesh over such moguls and through such a dusty avenue.

Not even ten feet into our escape route, I turn to my SIL and whisper, "They're following us, aren't they?"  She cautiously glances back and then says almost incredulously, "Yes.  Yes, they are."

By the time we reach City Point, a scenic vista at the end of the dirt path, the family has managed to catch up to us.  SIL generously offers to take a family picture for them with their cell phone, then we continue toward our destination: an old dance hall style building with polished wood floors inside and a remarkable view outside, a white camp-like structure perched on its own peninsula.  The family stops us by calling out, "Do you know any place we can have a picnic lunch?"

My SIL points to the distant building, our ultimate destination, and says, "Over there are some picnic tables."

Argh!  That's MY lunch spot!  No screaming babies!  NO SCREAMING BABIES!

"Or right here," I say with a huge smile.  "Look how flat these large rocks are.  You could sit riiiiiiiiight heeeeeeeeeere."  I see they're debating the three-quarter-mile stroll to my lunch spot on the peninsula.  The baby winds up again, and I know it's only a matter of time before one of us (me or a parent) ends up being pitched into the water over bad parenting skills.

Before you judge me, please remember that this baby has been screeching now for close to thirty minutes that we have heard -- who knows how long up to that point.  I don't care if it's colic, hunger, wet diaper, or mere frustration -- a small infant shouldn't be straining its vocal chords or be in distress for that length of time without some form of human interaction.  That's my opinion, and I'm sticking to it.

Suddenly, I perk up.  I have a brilliant, self-preserving idea.  "I believe we just passed a school a little ways back.  That might be a wonderful place to have lunch with kids."  Sweet smile, batting eyelashes, bright eyes like it's the best idea since the discovery of popcorn.  Meanwhile, I am concentrating all of my brain power on mind control:  Go to the school.  Go to the school.  Go to the school...

"Oh, yes!"  the parents exclaim in unison, "the school!  We really don't walk that far to ..." and they point off in the distance to my lunch spot, "... there."

As soon as the family entourage turns, we are off like shots down another dirt path and away from Freak Family.  We meet up with my brother and nephews and have a fabulous, relaxing, quiet lunch.  Well, except for the kid on the rocks in the water telling his dad that he is going to have diarrhea and constantly sticking his hands down the backside of his bathing suit.  That's awkward, but it isn't a couple of parents ignoring a screaming baby, so diarrhea is actually an acceptable alternative, especially since it will belong to someone else.

After lunch The boys head off on their bikes in search of old WWII turrets and towers, and SIL and I mosey back toward town.  I stop to take pictures of flowery bushes and rowboat planters and decorated nautical ship wheels and an antique bike in a tree and the umbrella cover museum (which will be open in exactly five minutes) and interesting houses and colorful front doors, when suddenly I hear voices.

Oh, dearest God, it's that family.  

That family is strolling down the street in front of us almost two hours after we've managed to dump them back at City Point.  We are far enough behind them that we can no longer tell if the infant is crying, but it almost seems quiet.  Perhaps, I'm just speculating here because I cannot see the front of the carriage, perhaps they left the child behind at the school.  I'm not judging them; I'm just speculating.

We decide to let them get ahead of us, wait a few minutes for the museum to open, then lose ourselves in the tiny room filled with other curiosity seekers.  Turns out the museum is actually a crazy little shop with an quirky docent who intends to hold us all captive until we have been lulled into some kind of boredom coma, forcing us all to buy stupid stuff we don't need.  I take a couple of pictures of her umbrella covers, which, it turns out, are not the actual tops of umbrellas as I had hoped, but are those small cigar-shaped carrying cases.  Honestly, and I apologize to the docent if she is reading this, it looks like a bunch of fabric condoms tacked to the wall, and I find it disturbingly hilarious. Having been held captive by crazy docents before (opera house museum, little red schoolhouse...), I understand that my only escape is to be impolite and push my way back outside while Umbrella Cover Woman is giving her monotonous speech.

Once we rendezvous with the gents, we grab homemade ice cream, do a little shopping,  then queue up to stand in line for the ferry back to the mainland.  Although I don't immediately see the stroller family, we do end up surrounded by two parents with five children, all on bikes, all ignoring the rules to get off their bikes, all screaming for some reason: One fell off the bike, one is tired and wants to lay down in the street, one wants to run people over, and one, who isn't crying, has yet to discover (which she will shortly) that her back tire is completely and totally flat.  The little buggah running over people with his bike is named Calvin, as everyone on the dock gets to hear being shrieked over and over and over and over and over and over again, probably three hundred times, as we all wait somewhat impatiently (and some very rudely) for the ferry.

Once we are safely aboard, we wave goodbye to Peaks Island and hello to Portland (because we can still see both clearly from everywhere), and grab a spot up the stairs where strollers and bikes cannot go and blissfully, thankfully, and mercifully, the fifteen-minute ride back is quiet, relaxing, and breathtakingly beautiful.