MACKEREL COVE

“This was taken about 5:30 a.m. on our way out for an early morning photo shoot. Ham waited in the car while I took a moment for that shot. Less than five minutes later, the light was no longer any good, and there was no sun for the rest of the day. Lots of times that happens, the sun rises and there is a little sliver of clear sky down near the horizon before the sun rises up under the cloud cover and that's the end of it. Lots of times, our stratagy is to get up really early to take advantage of the morning light, then stop at some little roadside coffee shop for breakfast and then back to our cabin for a nap before 7:30 a.m.” Spring, 2006

This photo was taken by my cousin, Diane. She and her husband normally worked separated shifts -- she had an office job in the daytime and he had a newspaper job at night -- so they developed a pattern of spending time together between both their jobs, often early in the morning. Living in Southern California, they were close enough to the coast to dodge over there for breakfast in time to watch the fog clear away. Ham was originally from the east coast and his first family was there, so their vacations tended to be in New England.

I don’t know much about Ham’s family story, but Diane and I have roots in Nova Scotia, just to the north, and we’re third generation Scots, so either by reality or by fantasy, a scene along a broken coast appeals to us. Going even deeper, I think that human beings are as much coastal products as grassland products the way some anthropologists would suggest. We respond to food and a coast-line, whether salt or freshwater, is a place where food can be found, either by foraging directly or by entering a pleasant little cafe. The other biological consideration I would suggest is that of the diurnal, the dawn and the dusk, when creatures are moving around. I believe it is a hard-wired preference for people to nap in the middle of the day when the sun is high and -- in Africa and Montana at least -- nothing natural moves for a few hours.

Beyond that, cinematographers speak of “the magic hour” just after sunrise and just before sunset when the light comes in aslant, throwing warm light over a blue scene. This is most pronounced in a place with a “big” sky as next to an ocean or a prairie.

And there is another contrast: a “cove” is a small, safe, protected place where a boat can anchor for the night, but it gives access to the whole ocean. C.S. Lewis defined the sublime as this juxtaposition of what was a human shelter with what is wild and disregarding of humans. He described a moment on a train as a child when the tracks wound through some formidable crags and at the base of one of them was a small lamplit cottage. (Thomas Kinkade has made a fortune from this contrast, though he slacks off on the “formidable crags” part, our times being about fed up with formidableness. At least I guess that’s why the big preference for pretty and pastel.)

The composition of this photo is worth reflection. (pun) The center point is a small boat, a sturdy little engine-propelled craft (“stink pot”) with the mufflered exhaust sticking out the top dead-center of a stack of shipping containers. The ends of two buildings, one to the right and one to the left, catch the golden light. The other boats overlap each other in a kind of continuous frieze. The edge of the trees makes a high lacy border with a house porch and power pole. The whole composition, except that foreground boat, is in horizontal fifths: one-fifth sky, two-fifths dark land and boats, and two-fifths water striated unevenly and dotted with marker buoys -- one of which is a bright red dot just over the central boat. All is horizontal, peaceful, except for two small teasing triangles of sail.

The website for Mackerel Cove, Bailey Island, says that “the cove itself is largely a traditional Maine working harbor. There are a few moored pleasure boats but they are clearly the minority to a larger fleet of working class commercial lobster and fishing boats.

“The cove is oblong in shape and offers protection from east-west winds, but is wide open to the south west. It is deep enough for sailboats to maneuver about.”

Bailey Island is shaped a little like a lobster claw with the cove formed by the large and small parts of pincers.

Flickr, which is a website that posts photos for sharing, says: “Mackerel Cove must be one of the most picturesque small harbors in Maine.” I have no doubt. But there are a few lessons in this photo by my cousin. One is that you have to be there at the right time. If the secret to real estate is “location, location, location,” then the secret to photos is “timing, timing, timing.” Like getting up early.

Another is that one must have the eye to see, a sense of what is beautiful, an instinct for composition. And then, beyond that, a love of the scene, a real and unjudgmental openness to what is there. But also the wit to see that defining moment.

Diane puts these photos on notecard stock to use as greetings and so on. They are almost always photos taken in Maine, because it is a place well-loved, associated with fine and intimate times, and just enough different from Southern California to make a person’s eye see more sharply. As we age, there is the poignancy of not knowing whether there will be money or good health to go back. Then the photos make it easier to at least travel back in memory.