We first came to Rockland in summertime. It was a heady season in our lives, though we felt so sturdy on our feet, a full year into our life together, a quarter-century into life itself. We were on the hunt for lighthouses and had seen pictures of Rockland Breakwater engulfed by the tide.

Our passage to Monhegan Island was unexpectedly rough. The calm waters in New Harbor fooled even the captain (“lovely day for a ride,” said he, after delivering his brief spiel on safety procedures), but out at sea, the swells were tall enough to splash water into the lower deck. Poor Matt endured the ride as bravely as he could, his hands white at the knuckles and his face tinged pistachio green.