Blue Highways: Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

Unfolding the Map

William Least Heat-Moon (LHM) leaves Ghost Dancing on the shore and goes out on a fishing trawler from Cape Porpoise, Maine for a day.  The interest in fishing, or at least the more dangerous aspects of it, has skyrocketed since the success of the reality TV show The Deadliest Catch.  Since one side of my family is a fishing family, it brings back a lot of memories and reminiscences for me.  Warning, my spot on the map is probably not accurate, but it will do.  To see the area where I think the Allison E. may have been trolling around, sail on over to the map.

Book Quote

"Four o'clock:  On the open sea.  Making ten knots, fast enough to raise a wake as high as the transom.  The forty-foot Allison E. rides up the swells and down the other side.  Up, down, up, down...

"Four-fifty:  Lights of Cape Porpoise gone from the horizon.  Eastern sky cold and gray.  Tom says, 'We can fish in a good year only about two hundred days.  Whatever income from dragging we'll earn, we've got to earn then.  We can't ever make up for a day lost...

"Five-thirty:  Rain stops.  Ten miles offshore and towing at three knots over an area in the Gulf of Maine known as Perkins Ground of Bigelow Bight.  Two hundred forty feet below on the mud, sand, and gravel, the net rouses bottomfish as they bump up into the 'sweep' and on back into the rear bag called the 'cod end.'

Eight o'clock:  Sun out....The weight of the net pulls the boat backwards until we are above it.  An aura of anticipation.  A crew gets paid only for its share of the catch.  There are no salaries."

Blue Highways:  Part 9, Chapter 3

Stern of a Cape Porpoise, Maine fishing trawler. Photo by Michael O'Brien and found on his Flickriver page. Click on photo to go to host page.Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

In my previous post, I made reference to going out on the ocean in a boat.  I would love to say that, given the fishing and oceangoing history of my family on my mother's side, I would take to the water.  Unfortunately, that has not been the case.

I have referred before to my uncles and perhaps to my grandfather.  They have all been fishermen.  My grandfather was originally a fisherman, and only left the sea for a while during the Great Depression when he became a logger and, when the logging wasn't good, worked for the Works Progress Administration.  His sons, Elwin and Bob, both became fishermen like their father.  My uncle Elwin fished halibut and other bottom fish on his boat Norcoaster much like is described by LHM on his time out on the Allison E. in Maine.  My uncle Bob, still fishing today in his 80s on his boat Kristy, concentrated on salmon and crab.  I remember when they would go out fishing, and the whole family waited for news - did Betty hear from Elwin or has anyone heard from Bob?  My aunt Betty communicated with uncle Elwin via a shortwave radio, as I believe my aunt Cecilia did with uncle Bob.

The lack of any major incidents on the high seas always masked the fact, to me at least, that fishing was tough, tough business.  I suppose I always thought of my uncles piloting their boats through pristine waters at all times.  Sure, other fishermens' boats sometimes sank, but not my uncles' boats.  Very occasionally, a fisherman would die.  But my uncles always came back from their trips.  I remember them often having good trips, and coming back with full holds.  Unlike the Allison E., whose captain tells LHM that the boat is too small to make overnight trips, my uncles would spend a week or more on the water.  They even took part at times in experiments conducted by the government, which paid fishermen to try new fishing techniques such as long-lining for tuna.  On those trips, they would fish their way across the Pacific to Hawaii and back.

As overfishing led to regulations in California, my uncles began to fish farther and farther from home, first off Oregon and Washington.  Uncle Elwin bought a home on the San Juan de Fuca Strait, and fished from there up to Alaska.  When the season went to a week, then down to three days, Uncle Elwin and his crew, which often included his son Bob and even his daughter Gina, cruised up to Alaska and then fished in deep and rough waters around the clock.  I have seen some of their home movies, showing enormous fish on the deck, and crew cutting and carrying them to the hold.

My uncle took my father fishing once or twice up to Alaska, in an attempt to dry him out and keep him away from the booze.  I think it worked as long as my father was on the boat.  When the trip was over, my father just went back to drinking again.  I thought about doing one of those trips myself, signing on as a crewmember with my uncle and earning some good money fishing.  I heard the stories about the poker games on board at night, after dinner and, if a crewmember was off duty, even some alcohol.  There were also stories about "exotic" fishing towns, rough bars, and lusty women.  I just had one small and minor problem.

I have always been prone to motion sickness.

I grew up in a small coastal town where the only way in and out was on winding, twisting roads.  As a child, these roads were torture to me.  We'd carry a coffee can lined with a plastic bag in the car so that I could puke in it as needed.  It took me until I was at least nine or ten years old before I could get past those roads with a reasonable chance of not vomiting.

While I outgrew my car sickness, I suppose I should have been surprised when I discovered, on a cruise vacation to Alaska that my family made on a Soviet cruise ship, that if I was inside and the ship rocked a little, I would get nauseated.  And if the ship rocked a lot, I would be full-flown seasick.

I thought the answer was being outside, on a boat's deck, in the fresh air.  A ferry trip across the San Juan de Fuca Strait from Victoria, British Columbia to Port Angeles, Washington led me into that little fallacy.  It was very windy and wavy, but I had a great time on the prow of the boat as it went up and down, up and down, like LHM describes.  The only time I had trouble was when I went inside, but as long as I was on the deck I had no symptoms at all.

But then, a whale watching expedition out of my hometown that I took with my wife dashed that belief.  On the deck of the little boat, I sat in the back, only occasionally glancing at the flukes and the spouts of the whales as the boat bobbed in the water matching the whales' speed.  I probably should have allowed myself to heave over the side, but instead, I held back the nausea and quietly rejoiced when we got back into port.

I'm afraid that I would not have made a good crewmember for my uncle unless I could have outgrown my seasickness the way that I outgrew my car sickness.  And until then, any fishing trips would have been torture.  I still think twice about taking a boat on the open water, just because I don't like feeling nauseated.  Given all the dangers of fishing, the inconvenience of seasickness seems like a small one, but my uncles always seemed larger than life to me - men who tamed the sea.  It's enough, and amazing to me that they tamed their inner ears and their stomachs while working an immensely dangerous occupation.

Musical Interlude

One of my favorite songs, is about Maine and fishing.  The song is called The Reach, by Dan Fogelberg, who lived in Maine and died of cancer only a few years ago.  At the end of the video, you can see him on the sailboat he owned in Maine, the Minstrel.

This next song is a whimsical one by Lyle Lovett called If I Had a Boat.  I don't know why I include it, except that I like how it mixes two things that are almost mutually exclusive - riding ponies on boats.

If you want to know more about the Maine fishing industry

Fishwatch - Maine Haddock
Historical Maine Commercial Marine Fisheries Landing Data
Maine Commercial Marine Fisheries
Mapping Maine's Commercial Fisheries
Saltwater Fishing in Maine
State of Marine Fisheries in Main 2008

Next up:  Boston, Massachussetts

Blue Highways: Cape Porpoise, Maine

Unfolding the Map

This is the farthest east on land that we will travel - we still have to get on the water a little - but after this Ghost Dancing will be pointed south and east and we'll begin the last phase of the Blue Highways journey.  But for now, we'll sit on the bluff over small cove with William Least Heat-Moon (LHM) and reflect on the ocean and how it is a balm for the soul.  To reach the end of our eastern journey, point your finger toward the water on the map.

Book Quote

"...I bought two pounds of steamed quahogs (also called 'littlenecks' and 'cherrystones' when small), walked to Bradbury Brothers grocery for a stick of butter and two bottles of Molson Ale.  I packed up my dented aluminum pot and Swedish stove and headed down through the sumac and wild beach roses to a rocky coign of vantage just above a tidal cove Vikings likely saw.  While the tide went out, I melted the butter and warmed the clam broth, dipped the steamers into the broth and hot butter, and ate, sitting against the granite, drinking the Molson's, watching the water.

"....A westerly had blown in strong, and the little Cape Porpoise fleet was returning early, each boat carrying into the pier an attendant flapdoodle of gulls circling as sternmen gutted the catch, then swooping the water for the pitched entrails."

Blue Highways: Part 9, Chapter 2

Pier at Cape Porpoise, Maine. Photo by Paul Simpson and posted at his Amused Cynic blog. Click on photo to go to host page.

Cape Porpoise, Maine

I know I'm not alone in this, but the ocean is one of my happy places.  In about three weeks I'll be heading home for a long overdue visit to see my mom and to attend my 30th high school reunion.  During my ten days or so on the coast of Northern California, you can bet that I will be spending a lot of time by the ocean.  I probably won't get as ambitious as LHM and cook seafood on the bluffs, but I will walk the cliffs, scamper in and out of the coves, check out the tidepools, visit the seal colony north of town, and soak in the sight, sound and smells of the Pacific Ocean.

Being born and raised by the ocean, sometimes it's hard to believe that I now live in a desert, where water is scarce and the air is dry.  The ocean's character, changeable and moody, translates to the weather which itself displays many moods.  On the other hand, the desert presents one with the same face most of the time.  Where I live, in Albuquerque, the sun shines on average 320 days per year.  When I lived near the ocean, I valued sunny days.  Fog and clouds were often the oppressive norm on the coast.  Now, when I talk with my sister and mother and they complain about the clouds and fog, I secretly wish that I were there, soaking in the moisture through my skin and feeling the sea spray and the rain upon my face.  I never thought that sunshine could be oppressive until I lived in the desert.

The ocean always did more for me, however, than just provide character to my environment.  Each night, when I went to sleep, I could hear the waves crashing on shore a mile away.  I could hear the warning buoys anchored offshore, mourning their low sounds with the movements of the waves, and occasionally the bells attached to them.  The sound was background noise to lull me to sleep in the cold and damp night air.

As a kid, I didn't appreciate this aspect of the ocean, though sometimes I would find myself in contemplation of the ocean as we drove next to it on our way to someplace or another.  Now as an adult who lives away from it, I find myself drawn to it in a way that I never was when I lived next to it.  The ocean has become a temple that I don't often get to visit.  It has become my equivalent of a mountain Buddhist retreat.  My trips to see my home are my version of a pilgrimage to a saint's final resting place,  or to the Holy Land.  It is my undertaking of the Haj.  It is not that I worship the ocean...it is not my god though like a god it is filled with moods, mysteries, and is something to be celebrated as well as feared.  But the ocean also provides me with emotional, physical and psychological nourishment and sustenance.  I cannot be anything but contemplative when I visit the ocean.  It puts me in that sort of way.  The sounds of the waves lapping against the shore on a calm day, or the roar of the waves on a stormy day, is a symphony to my ears.  The various forms of light from the sun as it makes it's way across the sky, or the colors that ocean turns, from the deepest blues to the grayest grays and everything in between, is the best mood lighting that has ever been devised.

If standing on the ocean shore, or along the bluffs that overlook it, has a balm-like quality to my soul, then I often wondered what I'd find out there on it.  I'll get into more of that in the next post, but I would sometimes watch the fishing fleet go out of the harbor.  As the boats filed out through the jetty and into the small cove, sometimes a fisherman would wave from the prow.  If it were a foggy day, they would then vanish one by one into the mist, slowly fading from boat to outline to mere suggestion until they were gone.  I used to wonder where they went.  I fantasized what the fishermen might see out there on the gray water beyond the horizon.  I speculated if they would be perpetually stuck in the fog, close in around them, with only a small circle of water that they could see while the rest of the world was gray.  Or, I wondered if they would come out of the fog into bright sunlight, so that our world and our reality was revealed as gray and while out there the real world was bright and sunny and filled with blue water.  My thoughts populated that ocean, just beyond the horizon, with small islands that only the fishermen knew about - little worlds of their own beyond my sight but not beyond my imagination.

Of course, the fleet would eventually come in and, on good days, with their holds brimming with their catch.  My uncles were part of that fleet, and when they had plenty they would share with us - a salmon here, a halibut there, sometimes a couple of crab which my mom would make me clean.  I would stare at the dead crab, its size often about as big as a large manhole cover, and crack it open with my fingers and remove as much meat as I could get out of it.  I imagined that not too long previously it had been wandering about on the sea floor and that only chance and bad luck had led it to the crab cage that my uncle had left on the bottom.  Then, I would take the crab into my mom and would enjoy crab meat on my salad and somewhere in my mind I would be thankful I lived near the ocean, and thankful that I had fishermen uncles who shared some of their catch with us.  As night fell and then settled, I would fall asleep in my room again to the gentle roar of the ocean, a mile west of where I lay, singing me to sleep again with its soft lullaby and the mourning of the buoys.

Musical Interlude

Since Cape Porpoise is a seafaring village, with a fishing fleet, and is closer to Newfoundland than anyplace else in Blue Highways, I decided to throw in something from the band Great Big Sea.  I remember first hearing this "Newfie" group about 10 years ago, and loved them.  Here they sing about Lukey, and his boat, accompanied by the Celtic supergroup The Chieftains.

And for a double shot - much of Taylor Swift's video for her song Mine was filmed in Cape Porpoise.  Enjoy!

And how about a triple shot?  There are a lot of Italians in my hometown, and many of them were fishermen.  Combine Italian musicians with an Irish tune about the sea, and you almost have perfection!  This is the Modena City Ramblers, with their Canzone della Fine del Mondo.

If you want to know more about Cape Porpoise

Wikipedia: Cape Porpoise

Next up: Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

Blue Highways: Kennebunkport, Maine

Unfolding the Map

We pull into the Atlantic seaside town of Kennebunkport, Maine with William Least Heat-Moon (LHM).  I doubt we'll be able to have a beer with Dubya, or hang out with George Senior and Barbara, but we can explore the place with LHM a little while and reflect on going behind the facades of towns and cities.  To see where Kennebunkport's pretty face and place is located, sashay over to the map.

Book Quote

"I did what you do in Kennebunkport: walk the odd angles and sudden turns of alleyways and cul-de-sacs among the bleached shingled buildings, climb the exterior stairs to the old lofts, step around lobster pots and upturned dinghies."

Blue Highways: Part 9, Chapter 2

Dock Square in Kennebunkport, Maine. Photo by Eric H. and hosted at VisitingNewEngland.com. Click on photo to go to host page.

Kennebunkport, Maine

I love exploring places.  There's nothing better for me than poking around, putting my nose into things, and trying to discover not only what a place might want you to see, but those other things that don't generally get put front and center.

I once read a phrase about traveling by train that has stayed with me forever.  I read, regarding the difference between car and train travel, that in a car you are often shunted by towns on an interstate.  If you end up going through a downtown you see the best the town has to offer - the storefronts, plazas, parks, and the best houses.  Often either side of the town is framed with the storefront strips which may not be aesthetically pleasing, but which offer you the things you want and need.  In other words, the highways bring out America's Sunday best combined with the practical.

On a train, the article argued, you will enter a town through the back ways..  You often travel through the less desirable parts of town, where there are empty warehouses and where the houses have either lost their luster or are completely dilapidated.  Sometimes this is so apparent that when you get off the train in the downtown you wonder if you are in the same place.  If driving is seeing America's towns and cities at their prettiest and most presentable, the article argued, then often taking the train is like seeing America's towns and cities in their underwear, sitting on the sofa and scratching themselves and wondering where the glory days have gone.

In other words, just like people, American towns and cities put on facades.  Sometimes the facades are physical.  In my hometown, for example, a lot of the historic buildings had or have false storefronts built up high to resemble two-story buildings.  They aren't.  The buildings are really are one story and you see this if you observe any of those buildings from the side and can see the facade.  Sometimes the facades are the public faces that cities and town put on.  For example, a town in Iowa celebrates its Dutch heritage with windmills and tulips, while other towns point your attention to art and culture.  It is similar to a man slapping on aftershave and a tie, or a woman wearing a nice dress and makeup.

Perhaps such finery is nice, but at the risk of seeming like a pervert, I kind of like the underwear.

I like exploring in the places that are, purposely or not, where a lot of people don't go.  Don't get me wrong.  When I visit a town I enjoy walking along the main streets and going in and out of the shops.  I like hanging out nicely dressed once in awhile with others who are dressed to impress, I enjoy looking at what towns and cities want us to see.  At least for a little while.

Then, I go looking for the other stuff.  What is down that back alley?  What might I find on the "wrong side of the tracks?"  Many times, I find nothing.  Many times there is nothing to see.  But sometimes...

Sometimes you find little things.  A small museum that hardly anybody visits.  A little store that has interesting and strange knick-knacks.  A person who is willing to talk about what he or she remembers about the town or city history.  A character that is immensely entertaining.  Perhaps you will be invited into see a house that has an interesting history, or some qirk that you might never see anywhere else.  Sometimes, you might even chance on an element of the seedy, even risky.  I try not to get into places where it is too risky or too seedy, though one can always find oneself in such places if one is not careful.

The characters, the quirks, and the interesting happenings are few and far between.  Many times you find nothing.  But the point is, unless you "walk the odd angles and sudden turns of alleyways and cul-de-sacs among the bleached shingled buildings, climb the exterior stairs to the old lofts", you're never going to have a chance to see such places or meet such people.

Now, there are some people who, inexplicably to me, are not interested in the "out-of-the-way" or "off-the-beaten-path" places.  There are those who prefer the chain restaurants because they know exactly what they will get to eat.  They prefer the malls and the familiar types of shops found in every place across the United States.  The familiar is comforting and takes away uncertainty.

That's not me.  If there's a new food to try in a new place that I've never heard of, I'm there.  I may not like it, but often it's simply the experience that is the reward, not whether I actually like it or not.  If there's a strange shop or museum, I'm there.  This yearning to find the absurd, the interesting, and the strange is what has led me to such amazing little places like the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles, little out of the way, unorganized or organized small-town museums with stuffed two-headed calves and every little item donated by town patrons for a hundred or more years.  It led me to the Bone Lady in New Mexico.  All of these experiences enriched me in one way or another.  It led me to love the surprises that our lives and journeys sometimes throw at us if we are willing to go to places that we might never have considered.

When you see a lonely road going somewhere into the hills, do you have an urge to explore it?  Are you always wondering what comes around the next bend?  Are you willing to explore the back alleys of a town or city.  If you see a person who is doing something you don't understand, is your inclination to stop and question them?  If you see a sign for a roadside attraction that seems a little strange, do you pull off to see it?  If so, then you know what I'm writing about.  You understand that sometimes, if you get behind the scenes, venture behind the curtain, there are wonderful things to be seen and experienced.

Which brings me back to Kennebunkport.  You can spend time seeing the shops, hanging out on the beach, or visiting the Bush family compound (if you're a VIP or a friend of one of the George's), and that's all good.  But, as LHM points out in the chapter, give me the small and out-of-the-way eateries on the south side of the river too.  You can visit a locality, but it's often special to find, taste, touch and live what's truly local, ungussied, unvarnished and therefore, utterly real.

Musical Interlude

I didn't read Coraline or see the movie, but this song called Exploration from the movie, sung by a childrens' choir and complete with nonsensical lyrics, seems to encompass the lightheartedness but also anticipation of exploration.  I doubt LHM had this type of tune going through his head when he explored Kennebunkport, but he could have!

If you want to know more about Kennebunkport

Kennebunkport.com
Kennebunkport Chamber of Commerce
Kennebunkport, Maine
Town of Kennebunkport
Wikipedia: Kennebunkport

Next up: Cape Porpoise, Maine

Blue Highways: Springvale, Sanford and Kennebunk, Maine

Unfolding the Map

We cross into Maine with William Least Heat-Moon (LHM) and head toward the farthest easternmost point of our journey.  As we part the fog in Ghost Dancing, I'll reflect on fog and what it has meant to me.  To find yourself in the grayness, trudge through the mist to the map.

Book Quote

"Although I was still miles from the ocean, a heavy sea fog came in to the muffle the obscure woods and lie over the land like a sheet of dirty muslin.  I saw no cars or people, few lights in the houses.  The windshield wipers, brushing at the fog, switched back and forth like cats' tails.  I lost myself to the monotonous rhythm and darkness as past and present fused and dim things came and went in a staccato of moments separated by miles of darkness.  On the road, where change is continuous and visible, time is not; rather it is something the rider only infers.  Time is not the traveler's fourth dimension - change is.

"The towns - Springvale, Sanford, Kennebunk - watery globs of blue light, washed across the windows in the cold downpour that came on...."

Blue Highways: Part 9, Chapter 1

Sanford, Maine town hall and annex. Photo by ShazBat73 and found at archBoston.org. Click on photo to go to host site.Springvale, Sanford and Kennebunk, Maine

Carl Sandburg wrote in a famous short poem that "fog comes, on little cat feet," or something of the sort.  I am not sure that I ever saw fog as a cat, though it does slip in silently and disappear just as fast.

One of the things I miss most after living in the desert for 8 years is fog, or really, any air moisture at all.  As LHM discovers driving into Maine, fog can be intense and thick.  Growing up along the Pacific Ocean, fog was a regular part of my life.  Sometimes it lay offshore, a silent presence reminding you that your beautiful day could be fleeting.  Sometimes it enveloped the area in a cold blanket of gray, turning everything but the nearest objects into indistinct, ghostly replicas of themselves.

I used to love those times. I can very easily slip into reverie when the fog rolls in, almost as if the mists serve as a melding of time and space and everything, past, present and future, converges in that spot.  Fog can serve as a metaphor for many things.  My wife still remembers and never fails to embarrass me about how I used a fog metaphor to sum up my indecision on our budding relationship.

Within the fog, everything becomes silent.  At one and the same time, sounds nearest you become more distinct, even as sounds farther away become more muffled.  Yet even that does not become a universal law. In the midst of fog, I have heard the offshore buoys cry their mournful moaning sound, like the sound of lost souls at sea, almost as if they were right beside me, even though I might be a mile away from the ocean, and maybe two miles away from them.

The most beautiful thing to experience in fog are the forests, particularly the coniferous forests of the Pacific Northwest.  Only the part of the forest right around you is apparent. If you look up, often the tops of the trees are shrouded with mist, and only the spatter of large, falling drops of water remind you that there are indeed leaves and tree crowns above condensing water and sending it earthward.

There is something about the fog that seems to calm everything.  The ocean that was raging just the day before now lies gray and placid beneath the feathery light yet implacably dense and heavy blanket of moisture.  There are barely even waves, as the mighty Pacific appears to settle into a period of quiet restfulness.

There is something about fog that alters reality.  It changes our view of time and space.  I'm not sure that I necessarily agree with LHM's assertion that change, rather than time, is the fourth dimension.  I still feel the passage of time in fog, though it seems different, perhaps slower.  I have driven, like LHM, down the fog shrouded coastline, sometimes in fog so thick that on roads that I would usually travel 40-50 miles per hour I have to slow to 20-30 miles per hour because of visibility.  The fog stretches out the length of the drive, leaving me more time to myself, to reflect, to think.  That reflection and thinking, time that I wouldn't necessarily have to engage in such activity otherwise, is a boon, for it's in that extra time that the seeds for change is laid.

It is on a foggy night, when the fog is extra thick, that one really gets a true measure of themselves.  The inky blackness gets inkier.  The lights from houses shine wanly, barely penetrating the blackness.  In driving one's headlights, especially on high, hit the wall of water in the air which might as well be bricks as far as the light is concerned.  It is at these times, especially along the coastlines, that one can feel alone, wrapped in a cocoon of cold dampness.  One might wonder if he or she is part of the world at all, or if somehow in travel one has slipped into an alternate and lonely universe of monocolor - a muted, sepia-toned world of light and dark and all measures of gray in between.

I love when the fog breaks in the daytime.  It is not a glorious infusion of sunlight, splintering the grayness and suddenly bringing color into the world.  Instead, the fog breaks slowly.  One notices, at first, a lightening of the sky above.  A hint of blue appears in what had been grayness overhead.  Around one, flowers, trees and plant hues go from muted or even drab to a hint of the glorious color that they possess.  As the fog gradually lifts, the colors emerge more brightly, until suddenly one realizes that the fog is gone.  It has slipped out like a master thief, having stolen time and reality, color and sound, but in the end leaving just a brief memory of its presence and nothing else to mark its passage save, perhaps, a few rapidly disappearing droplets on the leaves.

You'd think I'd be satisfied living in a place that gets an average of 320 days of sunshine a year.  But you can't take the coast out of the boy that has been raised there, and sometimes, I miss the fog.

Musical Interlude

I couldn't find a song that really captures what fog is to me.  There are pieces of what I want in a few things, so I will put them here.  The first is Fog by Hiroyuki Eto.  I don't know anything about this artist, but the song sort of captures the laziness and calmness which which I associate with fog.

The next is by Mnongo Neb, another artist that I don't know about but whose tune, Road in Fog, captures some of the melancholy that comes with fog.

If you want to know more about Springvale, Sanford and Kennebunk

Sanford-Springvale Chamber of Commerce
Town of Kennebunk
Town of Sanford
Wikipedia: Kennebunk
Wikipedia: Sanford
Wikipedia: Springvale

Next up: Kennebunkport, Maine