I forgot to buy eggs. And bread. And milk. Our very first guests were sleeping upstairs, and I wandered around the kitchen wondering how I would fix this dilemma. After a month of painting and cleaning and moving furniture and placing the vases of lilac branches just so in guest rooms anticipating our first customers, I totally forgot to buy food. Specifically breakfast food: we are a bed and breakfast. And we are on an island and the one island store is closed on Wednesday. And it was Tuesday night.
So I got up earlier than I had in months and baked French bread and raisin scones. I had my partner J Holt (officially John, but always just “J” to me) run to the farmer’s house up the street to get freshly laid eggs and then to his parents house down the street to borrow some milk.
When the family of four stumbled down the stairs close to 9 a.m., I was exhausted, and the day had barely begun. But as they devoured the strawberry jam smeared scones and soaked up the bright yellow yolks with fresh bread, I could hear the murmurs of appreciation, and I thought, “This innkeeping thing isn’t so bad.” Then I reached for another cup of strong tea to get me through the morning.
Running a bed and breakfast is not easy. That is what almost everyone says after we finish breathlessly describing our new home on Chebeague Island in Casco Bay.
It’s a lot of work they say, looking at us with pity. But, I (politely) retort, so is lobstering, so is running the only store on the island, so is launching a fleet of lobster and sail boats from the boatyard or stocking and running a gift shop during tourist season. And islanders know this. They understand that living on an island often means working exhausting12 or 18 hour days for part of the year but then have the winter to sleep it off, spend the money and start planning for the next summer.
J and I worked as crew of a private 64-foot Hinckley ketch for three years before signing up for the B&B life. We got used to little sleep and long hours in the sun catering to our guests’ palates and navigational whims and were on duty 24/7.
We had to buy enough provisions to last for weeks just in case there wasn’t a supermarket in port or to make sure we had the proper ingredients for weeks of meals-you cannot just run to the nearest 7-11 to pick up some milk or eggs when anchored off a remote island. We had to jump in the inflatable dinghy to go anywhere or pick up anyone or anything. And the boat was always in need of fixing: if it wasn’t the roller furling it was a toilet or a leaky oil hose.
But guests would step aboard and marvel at the glossy wood and teak floorboards and freezers in the countertops and the strange motion of the boat bobbing on its mooring. It was our life and very normal to us, so we got a kick out of our guests’ excitement and were recharged by their enthusiasm for what was our home.
So when we had the chance to give this living-on-land-thing a try, we knew that we wanted to do something that brought people to our slightly exotic world to remind us that we’re lucky to be where we are and doing what we’re doing.
And while living in a house isn’t quite as unusual as living on a yacht, being on an island in Maine is somewhat similar to living aboard: you take a boat to and from the mainland, you stock up on groceries because sometimes you don’t know when you’ll get into town again, old island houses require as much upkeep as a boat, and finally, island life is incomprehensible to most people
So why did we leave the world of sailing yachts to anchor ourselves to a 163-year old sprawling Greek Revival home on Chebeague Island, year round population 360?
Besides J’s love for the island where he spent his summers growing up, the strong sense community that had been lacking in our transient jobs and stints in big cities is the biggest factor. Every time we step on the ferry to On Chebeague we are asked how our new venture is coming along or we receive offers to help clean the dusty glass chandeliers or fix stubborn sticky doors or move furniture into our freshly painted rooms. (These offers were redeemed soon after escaping our neighbors’ lips! Offerers beware!) Even the town government is helping us out.
A month ago we went to the Town Office to talk with the Code Enforcement Officer. We had some questions about regulations and ordinances and a laundry list of other terms we knew little about. We were anxious because we were expecting a myriad of obstacles to hurdle and fees to pay and regulations to be forced to follow in order to re-open the Chebeague Orchard Inn Bed and Breakfast on the island.
It had operated successfully for almost 15 years under Vickie and Neil Taliento but after they decided they were ready to pass the torch, the B&B was dormant for a year while they searched for new innkeepers; a death sentence for many a grandfathered-in property. Luckily the license was maintained, so that was one less hurdle to trip over. We had talked with the state authorities the week before and while they were helpful in telling us what applications we needed to submit, we weren’t quite sure where to start.
“J. Jenny. Good to see you,” Town Clerk Susan Campbell said as we walked through the door. I had never actually been in the Town Office before, but I already knew most of the staff from around the island. We spent the next hour talking with Code Enforcement Officer Paul White, flipping through binders of town ordinances, and learning what we needed to do to get the B & B up and running again.
We left with a copy of the town ordinances and a better understanding of what they actually meant, assurances that the town would try to help us get all of our local licenses in place as soon as they researched how it was supposed to be done, and some down-home suggestions about how to combat my flu-induced bloodshot eyes and wicked cough. But although I was in the grips of a virus and ordinances and codes were spinning in my head, I felt great because I knew that we had made the right decision moving to a small island in Maine where everyone really does know your name. And they wave to you on the road.
Which can cause problems. Our first guest’s biggest annoyance was that he wanted to wave back at everyone while he was out biking. It was freezing outside and it meant removing his one warm hand from his pocket to participate in that Chebeague custom. By the end of the day he was shaking both his hands at passing cars in a combination greeting/restoring-feeling wave. “Everyone on this island is so friendly!” he told us after finishing his story, laughing at his “annoyance.” We laughed too, relieved that his biggest complaint was actually a fond memory being created by the fact that we, as the only B&B on Chebeague, simply exist to bring people to this island.
We truly feel that the islanders want our business to survive. And while I do believe the island has a higher percentage of kind and generous souls, I know that the motivations aren’t entirely altruistic.
Last summer when J and I were contemplating moving to Chebeague full time, I asked my friend Bob Earnest (who heads the Chebeague Island Community Association) what was one of the biggest obstacles Chebeague faces. “Attracting young and fertile couples,” he replied. Like J and I. Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Without working families producing kids to feed into the school, which allows more young families to even consider living here, the island would become nothing more than a ghost town of summer homes and the histories of those who have lived here for nine generations. The islanders want us to survive because small businesses like ours, and young people like us, help this island community survive.
J and I think that this community would be a great place for kids to grow up. Right now, we’re working long hours cleaning and cooking and running guests to and from the ferry and maintaining this old house. I may be baking a lot of bread this season but there’s no guarantee of a bun in the oven anytime soon for Chebeague Island School kindergarten class of 2015.
But no need to bring that up to our neighbors until after they recommend us to their friends and family!