Man Overboard
We were on Monhegan Island between the twin cliffs of Black Head and White Head down near the pounding surf working the rock when I did this painting. The winds, even though it was summer, blew a chill through our sweaters. There were wooden crosses at intervals way above the high tide line like the kind you would see adorned with flowers along the highway marking an ill-picked fate but these were coiled with a thin rope and a flotation ring. It was obvious that these life-savers would provide no match once the sea started its' tugging and I imagined the locals at meeting shrugging their shoulders -- some snickering -- as they voted for them. Hillary and I were finger-cropping in all directions trying to choose between interesting compositions (we only had a week!) when we spied our house-mate, the ever practical Herb Edwards, climbing up the side of the cliff. The plastic table that he had rigged up as a portable studio was strapped flat to his back and the aerodynamics of which was creating uplift making him look very much like one of those garage-made aviators as he hung to trees in his near vertical ascent. We were a little concerned.

I set up my gear in the bumpy brush amongst all this wild growth twisted and scarred by the wind and could feel the wallop of the surf in the earth through my boots. Minutes earlier near the water on a large rock with day-trippers we watched a foolish young kayaker hundreds of yards out who had disobeyed the signs warning boaters to stay away from this side of the island. When we heard cries of help Hillary and I both left our spots and met back at the rock. We could see through binoculars that he was now hanging on to the side of his kayak in his wet suit. Without hesitating one guy was off and running back for help even though it was a rough hike back up to the nearest house. Our cell phone didn't work. Another visitor, just arriving on the scene, got through to 9-1-1 and they said, "Isn't there anybody there on the island that can help you?" but they were transferred to somebody in town. The whole thing seemed futile and we all watched as he continued to cry for help. Someone was yelling, "We hear you. Hold on!" but he kept pleading. He was lucky -- if being stranded treading in frigid waters could be called lucky -- that he wasn't closer to shore where he would be sucked under and slapped up on the flat black rock. I had been told that the reason that side of the island was so dangerous is that there was so much air churned into the water that it was like quick sand: there was nothing to hold you up.

There was nothing we could do except watch the poor guy succumb and by now there were a half-dozen people at our location waiting for a tragedy. Hillary and I looked at each other and she said, "I'm going back to work." I laughed (how could she do that?) but we both did, checking every few minutes. Isn't this the point where the coast guard comes over the ledge in a helicopter or David Hasselhoff zips around on a jet ski? He had been out there 20 minutes or so when the double-decker mini-ferry (being diverted from its' course) came swerving through the currents and fished him and then his kayak out with a long pole from the top landing.

It was almost an hour later when we were back in town and word was making its' way around the village when I saw him go by in one of the trucks allowed on the island. I recognized him by the sheepish expression in his eyes. He was wrapped in a blanket and still shivering.

Later that day the guy that hit a golf ball through one of the windows in our rental told us that he received the call and arrived in his motor boat just moments after the ferry. He was also the carpenter that took care of the property and would fix the window and we saw him later working on the unloading crew that meets the boat. There might just be a dozen people running the whole island.

©2006 DOUG RUGH. Artwork may not be reproduced without permission.