I am a part of a writing group that receives prompts each month from the librarian on Monhegan Island, a place that I return to twice yearly, and find soothing to my sense of well-being. In June, Mia asked us to send scents to each other. Most of us, despite good intentions, did not manage to do this.
But the idea of the prompt took hold of me, and while I was sitting in Gull Cove, one of my favorite places on the island, I was inspired to write about a scent that pursues me, and that I, in turn, pursue. I was nestled in a crevice in the great rocks that overlook the ocean there, comfortably supported by the warm rock, cooled by the wind, and energized by the nearby crashing waves.
It is subtle here - not as pronounced as I have experienced its cousins in other places. You have to breathe deeply, and it only comes to you at the very tail end of your breath - a small tease inviting you to try again to more fully capture its essence.
But each breath can only do so much, can only bring in air until your lungs are full, then, no more. And no matter how deep, no matter how prolonged and drawn out, no matter how fast or painstakingly slow, each breath can only offer that almost imperceptible jewel - the elusively subtle sea-salt air that is particular to Monhegan.
It is so different from the scents of Cape Cod that hit as you drive over the Sagamore, or the boisterous boardwalk-infused sea air of the Jersey Shore or even of Florida’s sun-baked beaches. Monhegan’s sea air is more retiring, unwilling to flaunt itself, and in its rarity, all the more precious.
Wishing I could capture it on a cotton ball or in a paper cup, or send it to myself in an envelope marked “Special Delivery”, I take another breath, in the hopes that I might be able call this scent to mind when I return home.
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