Irish political scientist Benedict Anderson defined a nation as an imagined political community — “imagined, because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow members, meet them, or even hear them.”
As a young man, I used to read those words and feel he was right. After all, nations are merely physical landscapes on Earth, each with a finite and demarcated boundary.
Years of working in kitchens had made me immune to heat and stove burns, but this was a whole new level of pain. ‘Put your damn gloves on, you idiot!’ the skipper cried.
I later came to realize that these arbitrary lines created by cartographers are part of a shared common vision and hold substantial meaning because we believe in them. Our homeland exists as a result of both will and love. A country, at the risk of sounding clichéd, is a dream shared by its citizens. As long as enough people believe in its existence, this dream lives on, and the country, no matter how small, endures.
This was most evident when I packed my bags and moved to an island off the East Coast of the United States for two months.
Exile on Manan
Robinson Crusoe had Mas a Tierra, Al Capone Alcatraz, and Napoleon Elba. For me it was Grand Manan. Remote island exile provides a unique opportunity for man to confront his existence in solitude.
While Crusoe was deep in thought about theology and reflected on his barter experiences, which shaped the allegory of economic individualism, my reasons for being there were a bit simpler. For instance, my trip to the island wasn’t spur of the moment — I’d planned my visit. Instead of landing by chance like Crusoe from a wooden ship battling the waves, I chose to purchase a ticket with British Airways.
However, the reason for my getaway was a bit rock and roll. I had just gone through a tough breakup with a girl, and to be honest, I was drinking heavily and acting like a complete idiot. What I really needed was some time to clear my mind, get myself together, and decompress, to borrow a well-worn Hollywood term.
Into the wild
I am British, but I’ve always been drawn to North America. I come from a place known for its compact landscape. Neat and orderly hedgerows delineate the embankments along small waterways, while matchbox-size vehicles navigate the county’s narrow arterial roads. These roads lead past rows of identical homes, each accompanied by meticulously maintained gardens, amid a landscape sprinkled with uniformly square fields.
Even places we think of as wild, like the mountains of Snowdonia National Park in North Wales, have a history of centuries of human interaction with the land through farming, quarrying, and mining.
In comparison, North America stands as a vast continent characterized by its towering mountains, expansive desert, and striking canyons, complemented by monumental architecture and inhabitants possessing a distinct sense of self-assurance.
This immense scale and untamed nature have profoundly influenced its identity, serving as a muse for artists such as Albert Bierstadt, whose oil paintings of the frontier remain vividly imprinted in my memory.
Meanwhile, its physical environment has influenced its behavior and politics. As a Brit, I never valued gun rights until I lived in the middle of nowhere, where a cop might not show up for hours. Self-reliance is woven into the fabric of the nation. This belief enabled the people to conquer and dominate this vast land.
Serendipity and fate
The way I ended up here was a delightful mix of serendipity and fate, really. My dad, Peter, who has since passed away, went through a midlife crisis and decided to buy some land and build a house on an island 4,000 miles away from where we lived. My sister was in Canada, training for the Olympics. When he went to visit her, he just fell in love with the place, and, well, the rest is history.
On a chilly fall morning, I found myself in Maine, driving along I-95 toward the New Brunswick border. I was headed to Black’s Harbor to catch a ferry to the island.
I was exhausted. I had left home in England the previous day. By this point, I was running on adrenaline. It didn’t help that the flight over was horrendous. Even though you might be soaring through the sky at 500 mph, watching that little graphic on the in-flight monitor slowly inch across the Atlantic can make time feel like it’s crawling. No matter the size of the plane, you always feel a bit like a sardine in a can. It was like being squished on the subway during rush hour but with even less legroom.
So when I was picked up from the airport in a 1980 Buick Century, I beamed from ear to ear. It wasn’t fast or flashy, but it was reliable and, more importantly, spacious. I slid into the maroon velour seats and glanced at the wood-grain side panels as this beast of a car ate up the miles. It was a long journey. The radio was broken, so I listened to the Eagles on my iPod until it ran out of charge.
After a less-than-pleasant encounter with customs at the border, we crossed the Saint John River and made our way south to the terminal. A small kitchen on board served clam chowder, which was the first warm food I’d had in about 48 hours. There were a lot of people on the boat, most of whom were islanders. A few folks picked up on my British accent and asked if I was staying with Pete. “I am his son,” I answered, sounding a bit nervous. But after a few hours, I finally made it to the island.
Taking the bait
Grand Manan is a place that defines solitude. The first permanent settlement on the island was established at the end of the American Revolution by the loyalist Moses Gerrish. At 58 square miles, it is the largest of the Fundy Islands and the main island in the Grand Manan archipelago.
Most of its roughly 2,000 residents live on the eastern side of the island, as the high winds, storms, and jagged, rocky cliffs make the western side uninhabitable and it has not been developed. Luckily, the place I was to call home for the next few months was on the eastern side. I rolled in around midnight and hugged my father. I was just about to head to bed when he had an epiphany: I should immerse myself in island life.
As a child, my father taught me how to line fish, which involves baiting hooks with lugworm that you dig up yourself, often finishing up with the tide around your ankles. He wanted me to learn how to catch crab and lobster, which I first tried and loved when I was 8 years old. Dean, the guy who drove me to the house, was a fisherman, with his own boat. So after a few hours of sleep, I awoke at 4 a.m. to go to sea. It was an event that was to have a profound effect on my life.
Lobsterman in training
Bringing in a lobster pot requires a great deal of skill and patience. You must lean over the side of a boat and use a long metal hook to lure a rope attached to a buoy into your hands before pulling it up.
As expected, I was useless. Needless to say, productivity came to a standstill. I slowly started to get the hang of it. But with this newfound confidence came arrogance. To make up time, I was pulling the ropes quickly. Then it happened. The boat drifted when the tide changed. Remember that scene in “Jaws” where Quint’s hand is shredded while pulling in a barrel? It was like that.
Years of working in kitchens had made me immune to heat and stove burns, but this was a whole new level of pain. “Put your damn gloves on, you idiot!” the skipper cried. I think he was getting annoyed with the newbie who, besides holding them up, was now dripping blood on his boat’s deck.
Luckily, I had time to make amends. What I stupidly expected to take a few hours turned into a backbreaking 12-hour day. During downtime, we bonded over Budweiser and sang Hank Williams songs. By the time we sailed in, the sun had set, and we were unloading the catch in the dark. This was hard work. But I’d made new friends. And it changed my life. From that day on, I have had a profound respect for the job these guys do.
The somewheres
Tradition cements identity. In Britain, the small handful of fisherfolk scattered around the coastline are the last surviving vestiges of a 300-year-old fishing community. I have seen for myself how crabbers and lobstermen in Cornwall and Norfolk have more in common with others of their kind in North America than either has with any inhabitants of the interior. The strength of bonds made by shared language and shared culture and reinforced through a sense of labor is profound.
These folks reflect what writer David Goodhart refers to as the “somewheres” — those rooted in place and tradition. In general, somewheres are less educated and place a higher emphasis on security, familiarity, and group attachment. They are fearful of change. In contrast, “anywheres” have achieved identities. The college-educated mobile class who think nothing of relocating to major cities. They pursue professional careers based on their personal achievements. In general, “anywheres” are liberal and progressive, whereas “somewheres” are patriotic and socially conservative.
Traditional ways of life are dying. But on Grand Manan, fishing the old-fashioned way is being kept alive by “somewheres” like Dean and his family. Skills like this are taught by people who pass them on to the next generation.
The respect I feel for these people is not founded on politics, economics, or history. I base my decisions on a sense of civic duty and responsibility for others, both living and yet to be born.
Society is, as Edmund Burke remarked, “a contract between the dead, the living, and the yet to be born.” These islands of ours are rented. This world is not our own; we are simply passing through. Sooner or later we must vacate the premises for a new tenant. We were given dominion over the fish of the sea, so it is our duty to protect it for the next generation.
Travel, Lifestyle, Fishing, Letter from canada
