“You want me to take a bath with you?” Terry said stepping back looking left then right at her bathing suit clad friends. “No. No, it’s just called the Bath Tub. It’s where we all swim here on the island.”  I know I sounded flustered. Standing before me was the prettiest flatlander I had seen camping on Hermit Island. At 15, living year round on the coast of Maine in the little fishing village of Small Point, there were two seasons, winter and tourist. I loved tourist season. It was the one time of year that I could feel as though I were interesting to talk to. Standing on the rocky shore and pointing out the lobster boat I worked on to a local girl would get a “so what” reply. Tourist girls tended more towards “It’ so beautiful.” or “It looks like a postcard.” replies.

Today I had the opportunity to share my little corner of the world with a girl that out-shined any previous female encounters, if I didn’t blow it of course. A little less guarded, the girl who introduced herself as Terry said, “Ah. Got it. Like a swimming hole.” I shook my head. “Not really. The Bath Tub is a tidal cove that you can dive off the rocks in at high tide and walk across at low tide. It’s where all the kids hang out. Pretty secluded. None of the adults bother with it. They pretty much stick to the beaches and stuff. It’s high tide now and I’m gonna meet some friends there, and then go to the Kelp Shed to shoot some pool and grab some lunch. You guys can tag along if you want.”

There seems to be one in every trio of girls that wants to do the opposite of the others. Terry and the blond girl in the red bikini said it sounded like fun, the curly haired one piece said, “I wanna hit the beach.” The other two picked up on the obvious refusal being due to other boys involved and reasoned that it would be fun to see Hermit Island from a local’s point of view. “There’s tons more to see and do other than camping and the beach here. Besides, if you’re with me Mags will double stuff the lobster rolls at the Kelp Shed.”