The small, tenacious community of Frenchboro is a long standing and constantly evolving tribute to the working people who settled and call home the remote outer perimeter of the three thousand islands along the Maine coastline. From cockpit level your eyes appreciate the small prim well-cared-for houses of the village that line the road. The paved single-lane runs around the head of the high-sided, pie-slice of a harbor. The incredible screensaver setting, with a placid pool of tranquil water stretching inland, lapping against industrious and beefy wooden docks of the working lobster fleet all the way to the tidal marshes beyond, begs poetry. But, what you ogle over at high-tide is, in a handful of hours, replaced by the fang toothed wreckage left behind by those generations of brave watermen and their families working a tenuous trade on the very edge of the world’s economy. The flats are a burial ground for broken wooden docks, rusting metal blocks, abandoned tackle, and braided wire. Granite blocks with broken sunken planks made from green timber and iron bolts sit in the mud. The last abandoned pilings still standing are battling each double-digit tide. It is a beautiful tribute to tenacity.