Momauguin

In the upstairs bedroom to the left of the stairway, Frank was sleeping. He was a handsome boy of 17, 5’10", with sensitive features and light brown shoulder length hair. His room was unkempt. Clothing, books and miscellaneous mementos were randomly strewn across the furniture and floor. In stark contrast to this confusion was the corner of the room near the front window. In this corner, most meticulously kept, were the various airplane models Frank had assembled and collected. Some models like the Spitfire and the Stuka hung from the ceiling, gracefully suspended from fine wire as though in route to their World War missions. Books about aircraft, both fact and fiction, sat neatly on the bookshelf.

Frank awakened to the buzz of his alarm clock. It was 6:00 a.m. He momentarily forgot it was Saturday and climbed out of bed to prepare for school. But in seconds, he realized the day belonged to him. He lay back down on his bed and closed his eyes, thinking about the coming rendezvous he’d have with his friends on the beach for what would be their last fishing weekend of the season. Suddenly wide-awake, Frank leaped out of bed and darted down the hall to the bathroom. He showered, pulled on his faded jeans and topsiders, then raced down the stairs to the kitchen. His mother standing near the stove offered him breakfast. "No thanks mom. Can’t keep the fish waiting," he replied, as he climbed into his brown leather flight jacket. "Be careful Frank," his mom called out, as Frank shut the kitchen door behind him.

It was less than a mile to the beach where the Slowpoke was moored and his friends would be waiting for him. A breathtaking celebration of autumn colors decorated the Connecticut peninsula, and as Frank walked briskly toward his destination passing homes and cottages familiar to him since childhood, he was filled with warm memories. For his entire life Momauguin’s beaches had generously provided him the lion’s share of carefree days and quiet satisfaction. That is, until now.