“How’ve you been liking the hot weather?”
I turn around and spot the man sitting on the rock at the edge of the parking lot. He works at the restaurant across the way and he comes here to take his smoke breaks. We say hi to each other every time he does. He’s one of those strangers who’s almost a friend.
“I don’t like it, much,” I say, of the weather. I’ve been either under- or over-dressed all day.
“Yeah, it’s funny,” he says, “yesterday it was warm in Bar Harbor, but cold here. Today, it’s hot here, but it’ll be cold in Bar Harbor.”
Bar Harbor, I should add, is not that far away, yet he could be right. I’ve known it to rain in town but stay dry just three miles away.
“You know, I’ve heard the Gulf of Maine is 11 degrees warmer this year than normal?”
“Yeah, I know,” he tells me.
“It’ll be a bad year for puffins,” I add.
“Yeah, when the warm water comes in, so do warm-water fish, which are a little bigger and rounder. The adult puffins can catch the warm-water fish just fine, but the chicks can’t swallow them. So, in years when warm-water fish species predominate in the Gulf, every puffin chick in Maine starves to death.”
“That’s really sad.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“That’s really sad.” He seems to really feel for these puffin chicks. “But there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
“Well, stop global warming.”
“Yeah, but we can’t do that,” he protests.
“Yes, we can,” I counter. “Not immediately, because of atmospheric lag, but you know, nothing is so bad that it can’t get worse? By the same token, nothing is so bad that we can’t keep it from getting worse.”
“Yeah. I like puffins. I have paintings of puffins hanging in my bathroom. I tell people, these are real birds. They’re not made-up! I’ve only ever seen a couple of them.”
“I’ve never seen even one,” I admit. “Where did you see them?”
“It was last year. They took us on a cruise—among the islands.”
“Yeah. You know, I’ve seen another Maine bird? I can’t remember what it’s called, but I can remember the sound it made, at night, in the water….It sounded like a frog, you know—a, a, bullfrog? Where I’m from, we have another frog that makes weird sounds, it’s called something else. It sounded like a frog, but my friend said, no, that’s a bird.”
“Can you imitate the sound?”
“No, but I can hear it in my head. I saw it, and it was a bird. It was dark, and sort of duck-like….”
“Yes! That’s it! A loon!”
“They winter with us, in Maryland,”I told him. “They’re here in the summer and with us for the winter. They do make lots of sounds.”
“Cool! Well, I gotta go. It’s been nice talking to you.”
“Nice talking to you,” I tell him, and mean it, and I watch him head back into the restaurant through the back door.