So we headed out to Pine Point, hopeful. It's a bit south of Portland in a town called Scarborough, and it turned out to be an ideal kite spot. The beach is nearly half-moon shaped, with sandy beach that stretches for miles in this curve, and at low-tide spreads out generously to the fallen waterline in completely smooth, unblemished sand. The wind direction is side-onshore, and we shared the beach with windsurfers and kayakers, as well as sunbathers and picnickers. Apparently in a strong swell, this spot bumps up some good surf, too. As the tide started leaking out, we noticed a sandbar a hundred yards off the beach, which was breaking cleanly all by itself.
Brant taking the left.
After such a long recess off the kites, with nothing but failed attempts in too-light wind, the taste of a decent breeze filling the 11.0 was a wonderful change. But as is customary in New England, right after that bit of wind a big storm (hint: source of wind in the first place) came and changed our understanding of summer into a grey bout of wet. We holed up in Wild Duck Campground for a night or two, enjoying the peace that only comes with a rainstorm in a forest. The tall trees showered buckets on us when the wind visited, even when the clouds had stopped dripping.
The sun came back to Portland eventually, and it brought surf with it! On Monday morning we headed to the beach, where everyone on vacation on the East Coast seemed also to have headed, argued for a bit with a parking Nazi, then turned around to go back to trusted Pine Point (parking only costs $5 there). On the way, we spotted a grey Toyota with a longboard sticking up out of the bed, and a wetsuit clad driver toweling off down one of the side streets. We screeched to a stop and I ran over to get the dirt.
"How was it?" I asked enthusiastically, slightly out of breath.
He looked at me, puzzled. "The surf...did you go out? Was it good?"
Comprehension. "Oh yeah, it was great. I wanted to teach my friend to surf here today, but the waves were too big for him to get out past. I've been out for three hours! I'm heading up to Pine Point to check it out now...it's dying out here and up there's supposed to be good."
I told him we'd see him up there then, and dashed back to the cab. We were both stoked; our first surf of the trip, believe it or not! We cruised back up to Pine Point, made more appropriate intros with Pete of the grey Toyota, and mourned the rapidly dropping surf. Pete seemed to think that it might pick up again at low tide, and recommended Higgins Beach. He gave us directions and said he hoped to see us out there.
We spent the day back in Portland, biking around trying to spark some interest in kite boarding at the local surf shops, or possibly determine where the existing kite boarders were. We found one guy, Curtis, at a kite shop that had been buggying for a long time, and took to the water with his kite often as well.
Surfer B.
Come low tide that evening, we headed out to Higgins. By Maine standards, it was going off, and even next to Cali waves, it looked like a good beach break. Unfortunately there is NO parking anywhere near the beach. There's one grassy lot about four blocks away that sometimes charges $4 but luckily was free for us that day. As we were waking up the longboards, we met Marie, Maine's female surfer. (This is not much of an exaggeration...she said she could count all the surfer girls in the state on her fingers.) She showed us the back way to walk down to the beach, and joined the ranks of the staggered line-up at Higgins.
A bit later, Pete showed up out in the water, and turned his three-hour long morning session into a surf marathon. The thing is, see, Maine surf is no easy task. It's work and calculations, feeling the waves and paddling out through them. Of course, that ride that propels you along a rolling liquid mountain (or hill, in some cases) makes it all worth it.
Pete carving a bottom turn.
Since the muscles of surfing rarely get used in any other activity, it didn't take too long before those same muscles were screaming, "Whatsa matta you!!!" and refusing to work for one more paddle. Don't use it, you lose it, at least in the paddling department. Exhausted, and rightly so after a double-day session, Pete joined us back at the parking lot. Such a stud, he had totally written up all sorts of spots for us to check out when we made it down to Florida, his former stomping grounds. (This is a hint for all you followers to send in your selection of spots to check out.) Honestly Pete, thank you SO MUCH.
Meanwhile, Marie was out-surfing us all. She only appeared back at her car when the sun had dipped below the horizon. The four of us hung out for a bit in the camper, swapping stories. Pete and Marie made it very difficult for us to leave Portland, with tales of all sorts of stuff to do, including an epic reggae band that played every Thursday night. When the parking lot was empty and the bell was ringing, they had to get home and we had to find a spot to park for the night. We promised we'd sleep on the idea of staying, and fell asleep that night with salty skin and reggae dreams.
