Islands of Maine

You can see them from the ferry as it circumnavigates the island, between Lobster and Christmas coves, just beyond the rusted orange shipwreck. The diesel pants like a sun baked dog and the top deck of tourists arch and point at the spot where the stones are standing.

They're not much to look at from this distance though, not compared to the cliffs of Monhegan that rise above us, and fall so sharply into the cold Atlantic that the ferry captain dares take his panting ship within ten yards of the headwall. The rock face of Blackhead, one of Maine's highest coastal cliffs, looms 160 feet above.

A woman with a disposable camera pulls her son back from the railing of the boat as her husband feigns nonchalance. He grins a fearless New York grin. His nose is oiled, grilled scarlet from the long ride to the tiny island.

"Let, the boy look," he tells his wife, and smiles as if he bobs this close to crushing death each day. His fingers are a soft gray where they grip the long white bench that everyone knows is filled with life preservers. Nearby are four hazard-red life rafts that will hardly save you if a comber comes.

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