How could I live where such a place is just a three-minute walk from my house? I have been taking the dogs down there often and marveling at the peace and beauty that still survives in the world. The cliff is high enough so that the town seems non-existent once you descend to the beach. The remains of the old wharf is like a ghost of what Eastport used to be like. There were canning factories all along the water to package the sardines that made Eastport thrive and prosper. I read that the population has gone down every year since 1950. I am selfishly glad that it is as small as it is now, that there is no industry except fishing. It is becoming a city of old people, many of them retirees. Most of the younger people are poor, eeking out a living on seasonal work. Many people are artists of one kind or another, neither young nor old. They simply are.
The beach at the foot of Clark Street, discovered anew, feeds me nutritiously and pulls me up from my somber mood precipitated by the 4th. It removes everything but the basic earth, ignores how we are treating it.