My father worked on lobster boats out of Rockland when I was young.
He left before the rest of the house woke up. I remember the sound of his boots by the door, the smell of coffee, and the little notes my mother left in his lunch bag when the weather looked bad.
He was not a man for speeches. If he loved you, he checked your tires, split your wood, or stood outside in the cold holding a flashlight while you tried to fix something.
Maine can be hard on people. It was hard on him too. But he never left it, and I understand that more every year.