Here’s a mystery. Ever wonder why George W. Bush (“43”) isn’t set upon by local reporters for quotes about the world situation whenever he flies into Portland International Jetport on his way to Walker’s Point in Kennebunkport?
He lands somewhere else, very quietly.
We realize this while lunching on a shrimp po boy and a lobster roll in Pilots Cove Cafe at Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport. The reggae in this new bistro is breezy. Sam Adams umbrellas flutter at tables outside. We see a gorgeous $65M Gulf Stream 6 taxi by, call sign N313RG. An executive jet like this comes with Rolls Royce engines and 22 seats.
“Who’s flying in that?” we ask Taylor, our server.
“One moment,” Taylor says. She disappears into the kitchen and returns. “It’s the Bushes.”
“Which Bush?” Maine is still on edge, missing the late George H. W. Bush (“41”) and Barbara Bush. We’ve never experienced a summer up here without the vague sense of them enjoying it with us, too. Until now.
“It’s George W. Bush and family. I’m told they fly in and out of here all the time.”
There’s an invisible Maine, where the elite slip in and out without our knowing it. The Sanford airport dates to the early 1930s, a private strip created for the pleasure of Goodall mills, creators of Palm Beach clothing. The U.S. Navy expanded it into an auxiliary Navy airfield in 1942-43. During the next two years, they trained British naval aviators to fly Vought F4U Corsair fighters here (sending them back to England with the planes they’d trained in)–even painting a mock carrier deck with arresting gear, according to seacoastonline.com. That’s why one of Sanford’s runways is 150 feet wide–far wider than the smaller aircraft that frequent it today require. This place is dear to me because it’s where I learned to fly at 21. (I still remember making a bad cross-wind correction and skittering off the huge runway, causing the rescue truck to rush to my side, siren screaming.) What a sweet spot, with Mt. Agamenticus guarding over the airstrip and, when you’re in the flight pattern, views that roll out to the sea and the white-sand beaches.
Not that all Maine mysteries can be solved. Here’s my next one: How is it that a hot-dog bun–if you put lobster in it and raise the price to $24–turns into a roll in front of your very eyes? Who’s getting rolled here? Here’s to our state’s nuances, our invisibilities, our slights (or flights) of mind.
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