Hermits island. The beautiful, yet desolate island that one old man chose to live on…with his three goats. How do I know this? Walking around the beautiful island of Monhegan you can’t help but to hear locals tell the story of this man, and all the stories told have three things in common. One – the old man lived alone. Two – he rarely visited Monhegan except for supplies. And Three – there where goats… The number varies by the person telling the story.
One couple, who cruised around the island in their golf cart (in fact, I never saw them out of it), were more than happy to share their well-practiced accounts. They said they had heard he was a crabby old man, who just kept to himself even when coming over to Monhegan for supplies. Another woman with tie-dye beret, and a dog that refused to get out of the middle of the street (which actually caused the afore-mentioned couple’s golf cart to stop in the first place) snickered in agreement. She then added that she hadn’t actually witnessed it, but heard from ‘good sources’ that when the old guy did come over to the main island, he was thought to have stolen items from the provision’s store. A few others gave their own second-hand accounts of the old, solitary man on the island next door, and, except for the way they spun their yarns, their stories were all similar. Except one.
A younger gentleman, who was visiting his father on the island, had over-heard our conversation, smiled and said he had actually met the man. This was a surprise to the others, since he was quite a bit younger than most who had gathered and given their accounts so far. The gentleman said when he was a boy he was out on the ocean in his canoe and the water turned rough (that happens quite a bit on the Maine coast). He had said that the old man rowed his boat out from his island. He threw the boy a line, mumbled something about how he had no business on this water, and towed his boat back to the safety of the Monhegan shore.
Energy shifted in the others who had originally given their accounts. Eyes glanced uneasily, and as other older locals gathered. Heads nodded as they heard the younger gentlemen speak. Another spoke of when the old man had gotten older and unwell. The Monhegan islanders who lived there years ago had to fight to get the old geezer to agree to leave a candle lit in his upper northside bedroom window at night. The idea was if the candle was not lit, one of the locals from Monhegan would row over and check on the old man, bring food and medical supplies if need be, until he passed.
As the people whose stories were second hand at best found reasons to be somewhere else, more locals gathered on the small road, with more first-hand stories. Stories that didn’t refute the old Hermit’s salty nature, but rounded him out a bit from the two-dimensional sea faring character, to a fuller version of a capable, quiet, and even sometimes kindish man who loved his goats. There was genuine warmth for the old so and so, and, regardless of his cussing, or generally poor disposition, he was their Hermit, and he was going to be looked after for as long as he allowed. And when he finally passed, well…they all seemed to feel as if they were the lesser for it.
I left the island a week ago and I still think about the warmth of the somewhat sketchy stories the local islanders told. You may wonder how I get warmth from local islanders telling tales about a crabby old man who preferred his own company over an entire island of people. Well, their words actually became white noise in comparison to the visual impression their energy left in my mind. I continue to imagine the many eyes that looked out over the ocean seeking a candle flickering in a distant window each night out of compassion for one of their own.
