Dawn in Eastport

It's 4:05 a.m. and I can't sleep. Oh, not that there's anything worrying me...I just don't feel sleepy for some reason. Maybe this would be a good morning to go downtown and photograph the dawn. I've been meaning to do that since I got here.

Dawn comes early to Eastport in the summer. The town is 320 miles north of my former home in New Jersey. That means in summertime the days are longer and the nights are shorter here. And because Eastport is in the same time zone as my New Jersey home, but 375 miles further east, the sun hits it sooner. On this tenth of July, the difference is exactly 46 minutes, according to the US Naval Observatory's Sun/Moon calculator.

I climb out of bed and greet Marie, who blinks sleepily in the light as if to say "What are you doing up at this hour?" A quick breakfast of maple-pecan cereal washed down with hot Cinnamon Stick tea, and then I dress warmly against the early morning chill, gather my camera and monopod and open the door...to a wall of gray.

The town is blanketed in fog...there'll be no colorful sunrise this morning. But what the heck—as a photographer, I love fog. So I head down Key Street toward the waterfront, unable to see more than a hundred feet ahead of me. It's a short three blocks down the hill to Water Street, the town's main thoroughfare. The sound of my footsteps crunching on the gravel and the occasional call of a gull are all that break the silence—that and the low moan of a foghorn in the harbor every minute or so.

It's getting a little lighter now as I stand in the middle of Water Street—no fear of traffic at this hour on a Sunday!—and look north toward the one-block business district. Eastport looks like a ghost town. Even the tattered remains of the July Fourth pennants strung between the buildings strike a note of forced gaiety that, ironically, makes the scene seem all the more desolate. But I know that in a few hours the fog will burn off and the town will be full of strolling weekend tourists.

A short distance behind the buildings on the east side of the street is the waterfront, and I walk slowly down the path that parallels Water Street, looking at the fog-dimmed wharfs. Eastport's two tugs, Pleon and Ahoskie, are docked as usual. The roses growing along the path's boulder-lined border catch my eye, and I frame a shot with roses in the foreground and the dim shape of the Pleon in the background.

Trudging back up the hill to Gertie, I feel good about the few photos I've taken...but I still want to see a real sunrise! I eat breakfast while sorting through the images, picking the best ones, cropping, adjusting contrast and color balance...then climb into bed for a little more sleep.

A week later, another early awakening—this time well before sunrise—and a clear, cold morning conspire to give me a second chance. This time I pack a thermos mug full of hot ginger peach tea, my lightweight tripod, and my wide angle and telephoto lenses into my red backpack. I'm carrying two cameras: my big Sony DSC-F717 and the tiny Minolta X50 that always rides on my hip. The Sony camera has a better lens and offers manual controls, so this morning I'll do most of my shooting with it.

It's still quite dark when I step out of Gertie's door onto the dew-moistened lawn, but my eyes soon become accustomed to the faint, blue predawn light. Turning, I take a minute to photograph Gertie, her windows glowing with inviting warmth. Then walking carefully in the dim light, I make my way down the hill to Water Street.

It's even quieter this morning, because there's no foghorn. There is fog, though—a low, distinct layer of it hugging the water. A single bird in silhouette is my first catch of the day. The Canadian shore, suspended on a cushion of fog, seems to float magically above it as if in some Magritte fantasy.

The tugs Pleon and Ahoskie loom dark against the horizon as I walk out to the very end of the main pier and set up my tripod. Above the fog, which is dissipating even as I watch, I can see the Canadian shore a mile away. Thin, well-defined layers of low-lying fog make horizontal stripes across the wooded shoreline.

There's a salty, slightly fishy smell as I stand out here on the damp pier. Near me are three or four rotted pilings carelessly tossed in a jumble, and from them comes an occasional scraping or crunching noise. I wonder...are marine worms boring away inside the wood even now?

I sip my tea and am grateful for the warmth and the spicy aroma. Gulls fly past on some errand, but I know my chances of getting a good photo of one against the reddening sky are slim. Instead, I concentrate on the landscape. Screwing the telephoto lens onto my camera, I aim at a small island with a lighthouse on its tip that's visible to the northeast.

Waiting for the revolving beam to come around, so that I can snap the shutter at just the right moment to catch its reflection in the water, becomes a game. I count off the seconds between flashes and then try to trip the shutter an instant before the flash is due, to allow for shutter delay and for my own reflexes. After six or eight tries, I finally get one that I'm happy with. Then, grateful that I'm not shooting film, I delete all the 'near misses' from my digital camera's memory stick.

It's getting lighter by the minute. I notice to my surprise that the fog layer on the Canadian side has already thinned considerably...at this rate, another twenty minutes and it'll be gone. The sky is almost like a rainbow now, with colors shading smoothly from deep blue overhead to reddish orange at the horizon.

And now I can see a growing flare of yellow as the sun rises behind a layer of clouds opposite me. Stepping back for a minute, I pull my little Minolta camera from its belt pouch and photograph my Sony camera on its tripod, as it photographs the sunrise.

I'm aware that the town is starting to come to life. Pickups drive past. A car pulls up on the neighboring wharf, and men climb out and stand around smoking and chatting. The sky is very light now, and looking down at the still water I can see golden highlights on the tips of the ripples spawned by the water gently lapping against the pier.

Tiny whirlpools, only a few inches in diameter, form and then swirl away in an endless parade out into the harbor. Moving to the edge of the pier and tilting my camera down, I photograph them until I've used up all the space on my memory stick. I have another stick, but no matter...I have enough pictures. These aren't museum-quality images; they're just to satisfy my own fascination.

Suddenly I realize how tired I am. It's time to go home. I drain the last of my tea and pack up my gear, then walk slowly up the hill to Walt's house. Inside Gertie, I spend the next three hours reviewing all the images and choosing my favorites...then writing about the morning for this journal.