Comfort Island
September 25, 2026
Dear Nathan,
Jeff and Phil have been here for the week. We’ve been friends for almost sixteen years —I even went to their wedding—and they’ve become part of this place.
One of Jeff’s sculptures hangs from the back porch, catching the afternoon light. A couple of summers ago, when I hosted an event here for the Thousand Islands Arts Center, he came as an artist in residence and taught a paper-folding class.
The days have been crisp, the nights more so, and the wind has been relentless. You can feel summer becoming fall.
Naturally, the wind and the cold didn't stop Jeff and me from taking BUZZ out.
We went to see Rich Jury, who restored her, and to inspect another wooden boat he's now working on for me. Each time Rich peels away another layer of the double hull, we discover more rot and more trouble. Rich sees damaged wood. I see dollar signs.
I'm assured that when it's finished it will be the most beautiful boat in my collection. At the moment, however, I have three wooden boats out of the water with catastrophic board failures. Fresh water is wonderful for engines and less wonderful for old wooden boats.
Last night we got back into the big, new boat and headed up the river to Thousand Island Park for dinner with Todd and Henry, Thomas, the Bishop of Maine, and his husband Tom. It was one of those perfect fall evenings—good food, lots of wine and even better conversation.
We were back at Comfort by nine, but none of us was ready for bed, so we watched a German-language film called Mario. Romantic and sad, and ultimately rather unsatisfying. We all expected a happy ending and didn't get one. Perhaps that's our fault for expecting one.
Today Dennis arrives with his wife and son, so we'll cook dinner here tonight.
We've just rearranged the dining room and made one entire wall portraits. It has changed the room more than I expected. The portraits make it fuller—perhaps a little grander—but I think ultimately for the better.
When I was restoring Comfort over the years, my sister would occasionally admonish me:
“It's not Versailles.”
She was right, of course.
But popping in a little Versailles here and there never hurt anyone.
Stephen