“Defend the castle!” we would shout as the incoming tide crept its way toward the mound of sand my cousins and I had spent hours piling, sculpting and decorating. Scrambling for cobble, driftwood, seaweed, and frantically digging moats to manage the onslaught of encroaching waves, we played an improvised game of trying to keep our sandcastle from being overtaken by the ocean and destroyed. It was the late 1980s in southern Maine on Drake’s Island in Wells, at the north end of the beach just past the end of the sea wall. For us kids, it was the epitome of summer fun.
In 1979, our families had purchased some of the last undeveloped beachfront property in southern Maine, abutting what is now the Wells Reserve at Laudholm. There our parents built dream castles of their own: three modern but modest vacation homes set back 150 feet from the edge of the front dune, elevated 10 feet off the ground atop recycled telephone poles. The outcome of a litigious tussle with the state for building rights made us some lucky kids: the homes had direct access to a wide sandy beach and the Atlantic Ocean right through our backyards.
But 40 years later, my cousins and I find ourselves playing a much more serious and higher-stakes adult version of that same “defend the castle” game, in the same yet markedly altered place. Erosion and rising sea levels over the past four decades weakened the protective dune system, making our homes more vulnerable to the stronger and more frequent storms of the past few winters. The rate of erosion has gone exponential; after the two “100-year storms” that hit two days apart in January of this year, the dune was obliterated. Storms and flooding now threaten the public utilities, property access and the homes themselves.
Our families are not alone in this plight. For many of us on the coast, summer homes are deeply sentimental places we’ve had the privilege to visit for generations. They sustain us and remind us of our triumphs and our trials. Within their walls, heirlooms, photographs and vestiges of the past keep family histories and moments alive. These spaces and places are in our hearts; for some of us, they are our hearts.
But the reality is that the sword of climate change hangs over our homes. It is no longer a future problem, it is a right now problem. We are seeing it and feeling it. Beyond financial burdens, the looming losses are emotionally painful. Witnessing unprecedented flooding and damage, and not having a sound solution, is raw and draining. If ultimately we can’t fix the problem, then we must adapt. Adaptation will require new and uncommon approaches, collaborations between stakeholders often at odds, and renewing a sense of community that considers all of us in this, not just our own material possessions. It will require a shift to “we” instead of “me.” Which is hard, especially in this country.
But this past March, I found some solace when I attended a grief and gratitude ceremony at Portland’s SPACE Gallery called Between the Sea and Me, produced by the arts collective Hogfish. It’s a project and production that addresses the grief that comes with climate change. I wasn’t sure what I was signing up for, but that afternoon turned out to be everything I didn’t know I needed.
There I found a place to acknowledge the grief and uncertainty of our changing times, the threats to life and property, and the loss of what we’ve known. I was given the opportunity to feel my sadness in a safe space with others who were processing grief in their own ways. There were deeply personal moments and also moments of authentic connection with other participants. The event featured an incredible community of talented performers, facilitators, therapists and healers, there to support the processing of our feelings through rituals, music and solo and group exercises. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Ultimately, I found catharsis and a real sense of community at Between the Sea and Me.
In the spring of 2025, Hogfish plans a reprise of this authentic and powerful program, in the barn at the Wells Reserve at Laudholm. For more information and to find out when the next event is, please visit hogfish.org. If you have any grief in your life, whether climate-related or otherwise, I encourage you to consider attending the event to connect with yourself and others, to come and acknowledge the challenges and commonalities that we face as human beings and, maybe most importantly, to simply feel, in a space of support. Even if we cannot ultimately keep our castles standing, we can at least hold them in our hearts, together.
