ny yacht club cruise

New York Yacht Club Cruise

by Warrior Sailing Team

The 161st New York Yacht Club Cruise will take place in early August. The long standing tradition for club members is a voyage from New York City to Newport, Rhode Island. This year they will have a stopover on Fisher’s Island with a lay day to enjoy the sights.

Look for our vessels to be joining the fleet this year. These will be hard to miss. Metolius, Cloverleaf and Tortuga will all be joining the fleet for this summertime adventure.

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Photos: Inside the Exclusive New York Yacht Club in NYC

Located on 37 West 44th Street, the New York City Yacht Club is a private social and yachting club founded by a prominent New Yorker named John Cox Stevens. Originated on July 30th, 1844, the original purpose of the club was simple: to race sailing yachts. Today, the club is composed of over 3,000 members dedicated to both yacht racing and design. As one of New York’s most elite social clubs, membership to the NYYC is very exclusive which makes photos hard to come by, but we were able to get a look inside the stunning club. 

The club was first started during an outing on Steven’s own yacht Gimcrack with eight friends. On that boat, anchored in New York Harbor, the group developed their idea to form the NYYC. They designated Stevens as commodore, and three days later, announced their launching of a yacht club cruise to Newport, Rhode Island : the beginning of the historical connection between these two cities. In 1845, the NYYC’s first clubhouse was built on land granted by Stevens in Hoboken, NJ, in close proximity to the Hudson River.

The opening of the Gothic-styled clubhouse was followed by the club’s first regatta. This turned into the club’s first tradition of the “Annual Regatta,” occurring every year with exception of a few drastic events in American history: the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, World War I and II. Today, the NYYC is looking on its 163rd Annual Regatta.

A few years after the opening of the NYYC, Stevens and other club members bought the schooner-yacht America. In 1851, they sailed it to the Isle of Wight in the Solent- a hotbed for yachting in England . They entered a free-for-all around the Isle of Wight, of which they won the Royal Yacht Squadron’s “Hundred Guinea Cup,” further solidifying their title’s as founders of the NYYC. The trophy of the race was donated to the NYYC in 1857, renaming it the “ America’s Cup .” It was meant to be used as a challenge cup for honorable racing between nations. From this point forward, NYYC boats won 81 of 93 races held at the club, often regarded as the longest winning streak in all sports.

Around 1898, member Commodore J. Pierpont Morgan donated three lots on West 44th Street to build an entirely new clubhouse. Now 116 years old, the building was constructed in the beaux-arts style by Whitney Warren and Charles D. Wetmore. It first opened in 1901, and is most renowned for its Model Room and library. A number of races and traditions followed the establishment of the new clubhouse, including the Disabled World Sailing Championship, the Rolex IMS Offshore World Championship, and the Rolex Transatlantic Challenge. Today, the NYYC remains one of the oldest and most exclusive yacht clubs in the world.

Next, read 10 of NYC’s Oldest Historic Private Clubs and check out Behind the Scenes Look at the Wavertree Ship at South Street Seaport .

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Photos: Inside the Exclusive New York Yacht Club in NYC

Located on 37 West 44th Street, New York, NY, the New York City Yacht Club is a private social and yachting club founded by a prominent New Yorker named John Cox Stevens. Originated on July 30th, 1844, the original purpose of the club was simple: to race sailing yachts. Today, the club is composed of over 3,000 members dedicated to both yacht racing and design. As one of New York’s most elite social clubs, membership to the NYYC is very exclusive, which makes photos hard to come by, but we were able to get a look inside the stunning club.

The club was first started during an outing on Steven’s own yacht Gimcrack with eight friends. On that boat, anchored in New York Harbor, the group developed their idea to form the NYYC. They designated Stevens as commodore, and three days later, announced their launching of a yacht club cruise to Newport, Rhode Island: the beginning of the historical connection between these two cities. In 1845, the NYYC’s first clubhouse was built on land granted by Stevens in Hoboken, NJ, in close proximity to the Hudson River. Read more. 

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With a private cruise of NYC, slip closer to the iconic landmarks and vibrant neighborhoods that define the city. Enjoy the perfect moment on the water with champagne and catering served by top-tier crew. Your private boat ride of NYC is more than just a rental. Let it be an experience you’ll remember for a lifetime.

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starting at $600 Elevate sightseeing and entertaining with a private yacht charter in NYC complete with luxury amenities including an elegant deck lounge and cabin lounge, open floor plan, spacious seating, champagne & catering service, and professional captain & crew.

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starting at $600 Just for 2 – private and romantic boat ride NYC. Perfect for anniversaries, date nights, proposals, and personal celebrations.

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starting at $600 + $52pp Elevate brunch with private yacht cruises. Sip champagne, savor decadent bites, and glide through the waters on this top-notch brunch cruise NYC.

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starting at $600 + $44pp Luxury day sailing with an all-inclusive champagne lunch. Savor every moment on our premier lunch cruise. Experience the ultimate afternoon is on a private boat charter in NYC.

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For many travelers, the highlight of their visit to the city is their exclusive experience with Dream Boat NY, where yachting truly is a dream. Select a boat rental in New York that allows you to step off the sidewalk and immediately lounge on deck cushions. Float across the water while enjoying all the premium champagne and catering services . This unique combination of entertaining and sightseeing creates the perfect moment for friends and family. Celebrate all the big and small moments in life — birthdays , graduations, reunions, professional and personal achievements, team-building, corporate rewards and recognition, and private parties . Escape with your beloved for a romantic date night , anniversary , marriage proposal , bachelor or bachelorette party, and wedding party. Catch seasonal events on the water including the July 4th Fireworks celebration, and the stunning colors of the Northeast’s fall foliage .

Smaller is a Bigger Experience Small Yacht Rental in the Big City

Imagine having an intimate space to call your own with unparalleled access to the city’s stunning sights, all while receiving personalized attention from expert crew as they guide you through the city’s waterways, taking you places that larger vessels simply cannot go. Experience a private boat ride with unique opportunities to slip closer to the iconic landmarks and vibrant neighborhoods that define the city. So come, explore the city from a new perspective, and elevate your experience with the ultimate in seclusion and luxury.

Five-Star Resort on the Water NYC Yacht Rental

Experience a floating, magical adventure more similar to traveling via Harry Potter’s platform 9¾ than Muggle gridlock and TSA lines. Step through the boat marina’s silver gate and enter a private yacht rental NYC experience. Your captain greets you personally, and attentive crew whisks away bags and baggage, replacing the day’s burdens with light food and drinks. Out on the water, VIP service is seamless and stress-free. Welcome to a five-star Manhattan yacht charter where the journey is just as important as the destination.

Savor the Flavors Catered Yacht Charter New York

A leisure tour on the Hudson River will awaken all the senses. Start your day with a classic brunch featuring fresh bagels and lox. Celebrate the day with lunch by the Statue of Liberty. Then take an evening cruise of NYC accompanied with a Charcuterie Board or refreshing Shrimp Cocktail. For the sweet tooth, select your favorite cake or tart. And what better way to toast a life well lived than with a bottle of champagne, crisp white wine, or refreshing rosé. Don’t forget to wash it all down with a cold beer, as you sit back and enjoy the city that never sleeps. Bon appétit!

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New york yacht club cruise (1934).

Started off New London, Connecticut on August 10th, 1934 and ended with the King's Cup race on August 17th, 1934.

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Locals and visitors alike can enjoy the top landmarks of NYC from the decks of Manhattan’s finest tour boats. Classic Harbor Line yachts – both sail and power boats – offer year-round private charters and tours in New York Harbor.

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Dedicated to exceeding expectations for locals and visitors alike while they enjoy the unique wonders of New York City from the water. Classic Harbor Line hopes for the privilege of hosting you on a relaxing, inspiring, and breathtaking NYC boat tour through the waters we proudly call home. Our fleet is reminiscent of the classic boats that sailed the NYC waterways over the last two centuries. Read more >

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NYC Dinner Cruises & Private Yacht Charters

For more than 25 years, Skyline Cruises has been hailed for its outstanding service and best overall value for NYC dinner cruises, NY yacht charters and New York Harbor party boat cruises. Between the many well-known organizations that regularly hold events on Skyline Cruises and an A+ rating with the Better Business Bureau, it’s easy to see why we are trusted with so many special event cruises for everything from birthdays and weddings to major corporate galas.

Our “Super Yacht” Skyline Princess is the only one sailing NY Harbor with an enclosed rooftop deck. Our all-weather, year-round yacht is considered the most versatile charter yacht in the Northeast. Its public dinner cruises sail out to the Statue of Liberty for stunning views. Private yacht cruises sail in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut and the Long Island Sound.

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On our ship, we cater to your every need. We have fully customizable wedding cruises that are sure to make your special day unforgettable.

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The Skyline Princess is an extravagant NYC party boat experience fit for any occasion. Eat, drink and dance the night away under the city skyline!

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The Skyline Princess can accommodate a wide range of business functions, large and small. Book your next business event with us!

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We offer turnkey packages that can be customized for your group, times, menus, and port locations. Plan your NYC Holiday party with one call.

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The Skyline Princess is perfect for groups of any size! Private party rooms available. NYC Skyline Dinner Cruise with cocktails, buffet, and DJ.

Perfect for any occasion, Skyline Cruises’ many happy passengers have sailed with us for events such as:

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Since 1993, Skyline Princess Cruises has served the cruising needs of the New York Metro and North Shore Long Island areas, providing everything from NYC dinner cruises to elegantly catered yacht cruises. Our management team has over 70 years of combined dinner cruise and yacht charter experience in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut harbors. We take pride in our A+ rating with the Better Business Bureau, so you can be comfortable knowing your event is in good hands!

Why Skyline Cruises?

Perfect for any occasion.

Whether your event is for 15 people or 450, a Skyline Princess Cruise is the perfect solution. As the most versatile charter yacht in the Northeast, we can accommodate everything from a small corporate event or training to a large wedding and everything in between. No matter the size, the flexibility of options and the famous hospitality of the Skyline Princess staff will ensure it’s the event of your dreams.

Dance the Night Away on the Skyline Princess

Designed for all-weather, year-round cruising, the Skyline Princess is perfect for any type of event or occasion. Guests love the all-weather Skylight Rooftop Deck, our enclosed dancing floor for celebrations any time of year with its spectacular views of the Statue of Liberty, NY Harbor’s 4th of July and New Year’s Eve fireworks, and many iconic landmarks.

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New York Cruises Aboard The Atlantis

An event aboard the Atlantis yacht is one of the finest New York cruises in the city. The Atlantis is the ideal luxury yacht charter available for your elegant dining experience.   The Atlantis Yacht of New York Cruises is a state of the art private yacht that offers our Clients opulent dining indulgence combined with an exquisite ambiance unique to our yacht charter.  Surrounded by the iconic city skyline, New York cruises aboard the Atlantis Yacht, is the ideal setting for your next corporate or family event celebration.

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New york cruises:  5 star service & amenities.

New York Cruises offers all the amenities you could possibly want in a private charter yacht and more. Aboard the Atlantis Yacht, your guests will relish being surrounded by the breathtaking NYC skyline, the historic landmarks dotting the shoreline and views that can only be appreciated while cruising through New York City’s metropolitan harbor and waterways. Our company, New York Cruises and flagship yacht, the Atlantis, offers three decks, two of which are fully enclosed that make for a perfect yacht cruise on the storied waterfront any time of the year.

The Atlantis’ main deck houses our formal dining salon, together with a dance floor and dais stage platform. Access to the outer decks at the bow and stern are located on the first deck of the boat.   Entrance to the second deck can be reached via the grand staircase. Housed with a large bar area, this elegant space is usually utilized for the cocktail hour, and also has access to the outdoor yacht’s stern.  New York Cruises designed the third level of the yacht to be an alfresco sundeck that is ideal for taking in the awe-inspiring views that NYC has to offer.  A luxurious bridal suite fit for a queen, butler service and top shelf liquor offerings are just some of the fine details never overlooked aboard New York Cruises’ Atlantis Yacht.

New York Cruises designed the yacht , Atlantis, to appeal to all of your guests senses.  From the sights of New York while you cruise, to the aesthetics of the yacht, the scents and taste of gourmet dishes and spirits, the feel of a gentle breeze while on the Sky Deck and the sound of New York Cruises’ state of the art sound system all fuse together to bring your yacht charter experience to life.  

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Yachting in New York, NY

Experience the iconic skyline and vibrant energy of New York City from a unique perspective with yachting. Sitting on the Hudson River, New York City offers an unparalleled yachting experience. From the harbor to the awe-inspiring views of landmarks like the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge, a luxury yacht charter in New York promises unforgettable moments. Discover yachting in New York, where every voyage is an adventure amid an urban landscape.

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Why charter a yacht in new york, ny, family boat rental in new york, explore new york’s secret spots with a luxury yacht charter, .css-1uazooj{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-align-items:center;-webkit-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-items:center;width:100%;outline:2px solid transparent;outline-offset:2px;transition-property:var(--chakra-transition-property-common);transition-duration:var(--chakra-transition-duration-normal);font-size:1rem;-webkit-padding-start:var(--chakra-space-4);padding-inline-start:var(--chakra-space-4);-webkit-padding-end:var(--chakra-space-4);padding-inline-end:var(--chakra-space-4);padding-top:var(--chakra-space-2);padding-bottom:var(--chakra-space-2);padding:10px 16px;}.css-1uazooj:focus-visible,.css-1uazooj[data-focus-visible]{box-shadow:var(--chakra-shadows-outline);}.css-1uazooj:hover,.css-1uazooj[data-hover]{background:var(--chakra-colors-blackalpha-50);}.css-1uazooj[disabled],.css-1uazooj[aria-disabled=true],.css-1uazooj[data-disabled]{opacity:0.4;cursor:not-allowed;} .css-1pkhz46{font-size:var(--chakra-fontsizes-sm);font-weight:600;-webkit-flex:1;-ms-flex:1;flex:1;text-align:left;} how do i book a yacht on yachtlife .css-g5ledl{width:1em;height:1em;display:inline-block;line-height:1em;-webkit-flex-shrink:0;-ms-flex-negative:0;flex-shrink:0;color:currentcolor;vertical-align:middle;font-size:8px;}, when is my payment collected is it refundable.

Once you confirm your reservation, your broker will process your payment.

• If you are booking for a single day and your reservation is confirmed more than 7 days in advance, a deposit of either $1,000 USD or 50% of the total cost of the reservation (whichever is greater) is processed immediately in order to hold the yacht. Once your embarkation date is 7 days away, the remainder of the amount due is processed.
• If you are booking for a single day and your reservation is made 7 days or less in advance, the total price of your reservation is processed immediately.
• If you are booking for a multi-day charter and your reservation is confirmed more than 30 days in advance, a deposit of 50% of the cost of the yacht is processed immediately in order to hold the yacht. Once your embarkation date is 30 days away, the other 50% is collected for the price of the yacht, plus the APA, plus the taxes due.

Terms of refunds are dictated by the Charter Agreement. Generally, once a payment is collected, it is non-refundable. In certain circumstances, as dictated by the Charter Agreement, credits can be provided so you will be able to enjoy your yacht charter at a future date that is convenient for you.

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I Put Up a Fence in Maine. Why Did It Cause Such a Fuss?

The goal was to shield our house from the road, but it soon turned into something much more revealing.

The author, Heidi Julavits, at her home, which was built in 1815. Credit... Fumi Nagasaka for The New York Times

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By Heidi Julavits

Heidi Julavits is a writer who grew up in Portland, Maine.

• July 15, 2024

When we bought our house in Maine 23 years ago, people welcomed us to town with tales of local mishaps and gaffes. Barns that almost burned down. Pipes that burst. The man a mile down the road who built a fence. This chatty imparting of intel functioned simultaneously as a gesture of hospitality and a comical how-not-to primer, containing valuable survival and etiquette tips. Our town of about 830 residents more than doubles in size during the summer, when part-time residents like me arrive. The fence story suggested what types of behavior on your personal property were, and were not, considered neighborly in a town where zoning ordinances are few.

Listen to this article, read by Kirsten Potter

“You won’t ever get rid of the magazine room, will you?” people asked. The magazine room is on our house’s second floor. It’s basically a vintage mood board, and more of a windowless crawl space than a room, accessible through what looks like a cupboard door. A much earlier resident, or successive generations of earlier residents, had patchworked the pitched, unpainted walls of the magazine room with clippings from what appeared to be fashion, adventure-story and homemaking periodicals dating to the first half of the 1900s.

We promised never to renovate the magazine room.

We promised to change very little about our house, at least what was visible from the road, including the 11-foot-tall deciduous hedge that ran the length of our yard and seasonally blurred our view of the traffic coming in and out of town.

But then the hedge began to fail. An expert from a nearby nursery arrived with a clipboard and pronounced our hedge an invasive, nonnative weed, not worth saving. But we loved the weed. We topped it. We fertilized it.

It was on the leisurely upswing when, 16 years after we bought our house, a woman driving a fancy S.U.V. jumped the culvert, plowed through the hedge, jumped the culvert again and sped off. Had the man behind her not followed her home, she might have tried to get away with her (as everyone agreed) very impressive stunt driving.

We weren’t in town at the time, and so could only view photographic evidence of the damage: the gouged earth, the long hedge like a smile missing some of its teeth. Our reaction was impulsive and in retrospect, baffling: We would use the money we received from the stunt driver to put up a fence.

Even one year earlier, we might have planted a new hedge, possibly even a native one. But the person driving over our front lawn felt like a slapstick escalation of a recent trend I had observed. Previously, living on our road was like living on the ocean, but with much lower property taxes; its perils could be charted and managed, like the tides. But then the unofficial speed limit outside our house increased from 35 m.p.h. to 45, even occasionally 50. At this time, I had younger children, and many friends with young children, and a trampoline in the backyard that, even if we weren’t home, was “open” to bouncing enthusiasts, which sometimes included middle-aged men when the neighborhood threw parties. The slight curve near our driveway made it difficult to see cars coming at higher speeds, which meant even adults, people arguably in possession of better judgment than a 7-year-old, were nearly hit a few times trying to leave on a bike.

At first, I accepted (even embraced!) the road as my problem to solve, and thus I indulged many energizing, problem-solving fantasies. I would pay my daughter to wear a cop costume and stand at the end of our driveway and point a hair dryer, which at high speeds would register as a radar gun, at oncoming cars. I would put up the sort of signs that make me slow down. FREE STUFF. YARD SALE. I would buy a baby doll, strap it into a stroller and leave the stroller in the middle of the road.

But I also felt resigned to a foregone fate. The intensifying situation on the road, I suspected, was the natural progression of an economic agreement struck more than a century ago between transportation advances and Maine as a nonexportable resource. The state’s slogan “Vacationland” first appeared on car license plates in 1936 and still appears on the Maine border sign that greets drivers as they enter via I-95, the state’s primary national highway. But Maine’s identity as a seasonal purification rite for urbanites dates further back than even the invention of cars, to the years following the Civil War.

I’m neurotically attuned (some might say) to this history’s lingering rumbles. I was born and raised in Maine, and so I’ve been versed since my earliest moments of sentience in Maine’s identity as something both staunchly fixed and, during the summer months, menaced from all directions, including the sea, by visitors — “From Aways.” While my parents moved to Portland in 1965, after which my brother and I were born, we were also, according to some measures of nativeness, invaders ourselves. Rather than “Mainers Who Can Trace Their Mainerness Back Through Many Generations of Other Mainers Who Lived Only in Maine,” my parents, and by eventual extension my brother and I, were the type of Mainer defined as “Year-Round Resident, Seasonally Irritated.”

Yet my father was and is Mainer enough that this history still irks him. He recently, while visiting, groused of summer people (to me, now technically a summer person), “They showed up thinking we should adapt to their ways, rather than them adapting to ours.” His frustration was not about “us” demanding compliance, and failing to get it, from part-time residents or tourists; he was reacting to the outsiders’ hubristic refusal to value local knowledge that a person might share as a form of wary welcome.

He and my mother still love to tell the story that they heard from friends of an 1980s invasion by the New York Yacht Club, when their annual summer cruise came to Maine. The story, which the Yacht Club denies ever happened, has to me the true-ringing feel of what was then a century’s worth of encounters between Mainers and summer people, efficiently condensed into a colorful how-not-to tale. The club members, ignoring the cautions from local bystanders, piled onto a dock as if it were a commuter-train platform and waited for a launch to take them to their individual yachts, presumably sailed north for them by hired captains. The dock float sank lower and lower and finally swamped, dumping into the harbor the club members, some of whom had flown to the Portland International Jetport straight from New York in their business suits and were still, when they hit the ocean, holding their briefcases.

During the summer of 2016, when the speed of cars driving past our house was frequently 10 to 15 m.p.h. above the posted limit, I did something I’d never done before. I complained. I visited the town selectmen, one of whom asked, “Are you related to Bill?” He and my father worked together, we eventually determined, back in the ’90s. This is how encounters tend to start in a state with just over a million people, in a town with just under a thousand people, when you have a last name that not even your close childhood friends can spell.

The selectmen were sympathetic to the speeding issue — I was not the first to complain, and nor were these complaints coming only from seasonal residents — but their message of thoughtful, if cautious, consideration reflected those I’d encountered in casual conversation. Possibly, the town’s attitude toward speeding was like the attitude toward zoning laws, or the ongoing lack of them — a respectful attempt to manage new civic challenges while preserving the state’s historical spirit of self-determination.

My husband and I honored that spirit after the stunt driver busted through our hedge. Our small son, when informed about our plans to build a fence, stared melancholically through the ragged gap, as if we’d just told him that we intended to continue the damage that the stunt driver had only begun — which in a sense, we had.

“Only depressed people build fences,” he said.

We didn’t lecture him on the difference between depression and anxiety, between anxiety and acute situational awareness, between acute situational awareness and instant, awful death, because first we needed to fully kill the hedge we had spent nearly a decade trying to save. Then we needed someone to install the fence. We settled on a fence company located a little over an hour away. The reviews were good. Their customers — whoever they were, and in whatever bizarre, fence-loving towns they lived — seemed happy.

But as we scrolled through fence styles online, none seemed like the obvious choice. My inability to know which fence was the right fence should have suggested: There was no right fence. True, I was not fluent in the language of fences. I didn’t know how tall a fence should be. I didn’t know what kind of fence would look best with our house, because our house, and most houses like it, did not have fences marking a property boundary. Maine was more of a “sign” place. This was how you knew you were crossing, or trespassing, a border.

Signs change, however; or maybe it’s more accurate to say that the messages on signs do. Despite what would seem to be its wild success, the “Vacationland” state slogan was updated in 1987 by Maine’s Office of Tourism to “The Way Life Should Be.” (A giant sign posted on I-95 near Kittery read in full, “Welcome Home/The Way Life Should Be.”)

This new slogan, while on its surface more breezily aspirational, caused perplexity, and signaled different things to different people. If, for example, a person had recently met with their local elected officials, they might think that Maine, as a matter of no-frills pragmatism (and increasingly, it seemed, as a marketing virtue) wasn’t hampered by the sometimes-unnuanced oversteps of federal governance. Others might find the slogan puzzlingly out of touch, given that poverty rates were on the rise; what, too, might the slogan imply in a state whose racial demographics were 98 percent white? Others might worry the slogan could risk insulting tourists, presumably the target audience, about their way of life.

“The Way Life Should Be,” depending on the song that happened to be playing in your car after you drove over the border and first beheld the welcome sign, could also thrum with minor-key warning: Don’t come here thinking that things need to change.

But one thing that kept changing was the state’s highway signage. Gov. Angus King, an independent who held office from 1995 until 2003, installed two additional signs flanking I-95, “Maine. Worth a Visit. Worth a Lifetime” — the equivalent of a person seeding your subconscious as you entered the state and then handing you a tempting real estate listing as you left. Later, in 2011, Gov. Paul LePage, a Republican, sharpened King’s suggestive soft sell into what sounded like a deregulated fire sale by attaching, beneath the original northbound sign, a supplemental message. Now it read, “Welcome to Maine/The Way Life Should Be/OPEN FOR BUSINESS.”

Our choice of fence may have abided by some, all or none of these slogans. Seven feet tall, the fence was solid, not lattice-y, made of vertical cedar tongue-and-groove boards. (The invoice we received from the fence company bluntly itemized it as a “privacy panel.”) We had decided that if we were going to build a fence, we should seize the chance not to see cars, and to muffle the rise and fall of their engines. Before the stunt-driver incident, some friends were visiting with their dog when it ran into the road and was killed. (My father, standing in our yard at the time, said, “At least it wasn’t a kid.” He might have tabled this observation for a few hours or weeks, but he wasn’t wrong.) At that point, I was still hearing a large animal being struck every time a car drove by, especially because of what my father had said: The dog might have been a kid.

The fence we chose was topped by a mini-fence detail that ran the length of it, to visually soften the highway-sound-barrier vibe. The cap rail read “fence” in the way the fence did not, which further suggested: This fence was not only a fence. It was also an overreaction — a fearful response to what might have happened, rather than what did. And if the fence was meant to decrease the chances that a person might drive into the yard again, or that one of us might be hit on the road, it did not make us safer from either threat.

I wasn’t home the day the fence was installed. I left in the morning, and by the time I returned, it was there. It was far too tall for our tiny house behind it. It was an unweathered cedar slab, practically neon-yellow when the sun hit it. It gave me an awful feeling of remorse in the pit of my stomach from the moment I first saw it.

The fence caused an immediate stir, which I found highly distressing, but also affirming, because I agreed with the dissenters, some of whom were my dear friends. Other members of the community conveyed their feelings publicly, in writing. Our town is home to at least one, and maybe more, anonymous activists who express their opinions via handmade signs; they’re like an online comments section, posted high — often very high — in the air. One of these commenters posted a sign on the road, just north of our house, which, on the plus side, possibly caused the average speed limit to temporarily decrease. TRUMP’S BORDER WALL 1 MILE AHEAD. The sign was nailed to the top of an electrical pole; the inability to remove it without a bucket truck reinforced the permanence of the opinion.

At first, this message, much like “The Way Life Should be,” contained a multiplicity of possible readings. What might, however, initially be interpreted as a protest by a left-wing resident was in fact — at least I think it was — in 2017 a much more layered calling-out of our presumed liberalism, as city-dwelling From Aways. If so, I took their point. Look at these hypocritical people who are probably opposed to Trump’s wall, putting up a wall.

After the initial furor died down, circumspect friends would say, consolingly, “It’ll gray up eventually.” One or two congratulated me. I had every right to build a fence. Others refused to countenance my regret. When I shared my thoughts about future plants or bushes that might take the fence’s place, should it magically disappear, one person said, “I think you have to accept the fact of the fence.”

These varied responses summed up the paradox of the fence. It was the most From Away thing I could have done; it was also the most Maine thing I could have done. People were discouraged from building fences, but because it was our property, nobody had the right to tell us what we could do on it.

This also probably explained why no one vandalized the fence, even though it was a long, blank canvas that honestly might have looked a little cheerier with a hit of spray paint. It was my psychological boundary line made material. People respected it. In some ways, they respected it too much. The fence altered our social weather patterns. Before the fence, friends and acquaintances would stop by regularly. After we built the fence, these impromptu visits slowed. Some people started to text beforehand to announce they’d be dropping by, or to ask if it was OK; they suddenly felt they needed permission to see us.

As the summer wound down, acquaintances and friends would ask ribbingly, “How’s your wall?” Most people had an opinion, or a teasing-yet-not comment, which at a minimum illustrates how visible our house is and how many people drive past it.

Yet on the plus side, which I strove to see, we were becoming the future tale to be told to newcomers; our fence, and the community response to it, would be entered in the oral history, and we would be immortalized. It wouldn’t be the first time: After taking ownership of our house in 2001, we wasted no time starring in a cautionary story about arrivals to town who didn’t know much. Our very first winter, we turned off the breaker to the sump pump instead of the well pump, and then there was a violent rainstorm, then the basement flooded, then the furnace became submerged and broke, then the temperature plummeted, then the pipes burst, then the well pump continued to empty the well water into the dining room, and because our foundation slumps toward the woods, then the water flowed out below the roofline and formed a thick, frozen waterfall on the exterior wall that threatened to pull down the back half of the house.

Not for the last time, we were a source of comedic incompetence; we had failed to understand how winter works, and how water works, and how electricity works. But the story of the fence was proof of a different, more publicly visible failure to understand. Or worse: understanding, but not caring.

We did care. This made the fact of the fence inscrutable even to us. Not even a year after building the fence, my husband stood outside one evening, assessing it with a look of bewilderment. “I don’t know why we did that,” he said.

The following summer, we planted a row of native, climbing hydrangeas to cover the exterior of the fence in green so that, to those driving by even at moderate speeds, it might be indistinguishable from the previous hedge. The hydrangeas grew quickly, but not quickly enough. I found myself caught between guilt and annoyance when greeted by someone with another “wall” joke. If the people who lived in town weren’t thrilled with the fence, they had every good reason to feel that way, because we’d permanently altered their view; also, they had learned to coexist with the road without building a fence, so why couldn’t we?

I had less patience for the seasonal people who lived on the water, far from the busy road. They were cranky that their scenic drive to the grocery store had been changed; they could no longer be cleansed by the preindustrial beauty of Maine as they sped past our old farmhouse to buy food. I had to hold my tongue when a patrician summer person who lived on the coast, down two private dirt roads, announced to me, “It is a person’s community duty not to change the front of their house.”

Which sentiment I did not entirely disagree with. Our house, for example, was both ours and not. For nearly a decade, our house was referred to by the former owner’s name; for the FedEx delivery person to find us, we had to repeatedly clarify that we lived in their house. In our town, maybe in many small towns, the houses are a way of recording recent human history. Our house was communal property, in a sense; a public holding of the historical society.

This was also why we were so committed to preserving the magazine room. It functioned as a museum to the generations who preceded us. I often took visitors up to see the clippings, though the room had become harder and harder to access. First there were five, then 10, then 15 years’ worth of books and clothing barricading entry. Only the most agile person could squeeze past the threshold, or a committed, bushwhacking person like my daughter, who always found a new cache of clothes that interested her as the fashion trends in her present made renewably relevant the leftovers of our past, which we had stuffed into trash bags and taken to hurling from the doorway into the middle of the room.

Yet questions of preservation — and how a slogan like “The Way Life Should Be” might freeze a place in time, or raise questions of what should be, rather than what is — could, depending on your interpretation, suggest a widespread consensus that never existed. In 2019, Gov. Janet Mills, a Democrat, replaced LePage’s “Welcome to Maine/The Way Life Should Be/OPEN FOR BUSINESS” with, simply, “MAINE/Welcome Home.” (Three months later Mills added back the 1987 slogan; the sign currently reads “MAINE/Welcome Home/The Way Life Should Be.”) This latest tweak might announce the state’s increased openness, not just to seasonal visitors but also to people relocating from other states and countries. It might be an exhortation for residents, new and old, to consider the state not as a fixed entity but as an increasingly porous and diverse one, built atop a sturdy foundation of resourcefulness and autonomy.

The responsibilities a newcomer might have, or not have, in a place they call home, even for part of the year — these are questions that I think about constantly. When is inaction in the name of respect, or preservation, an abnegation of civic duty? When is preservation used as noble cover to forbid new people’s access to a place? When is a newcomer’s confident sense of what should be actually an imposition of their values?

But “Welcome Home/The Way Life Should Be” is also the epigraph to every person’s childhood memories, assuming they associate home with happiness. That nostalgia — also the sense of melancholy or outrage — can intensify in direct proportion to the amount of change that has happened to your home since you left it.

The fence is seven years old now, but it is still occasionally a source of friendly teasing. Last winter, I drove up alone, and arrived after dark, and left my car in the road so I could move a branch that had fallen across the driveway. A friend pulled up beside me and said, smiling, “Are you locked out of your compound?”

Each passing year also deepens a paradox; to add more months to the time I’ve spent in Maine adds more months to the time I’ve spent not in Maine. If time is the singular measure, the longer I live in Maine, the more of a From Away I become.

Yet even when I’m not in Maine, I represent a demographic causing an increasingly dire housing crisis. Mills’s welcome sign became prophetic; during the pandemic, people from out of state bought places that had been on the market for years, in some cases more than a decade.

In 2019, the average sale price in our county was down about 25 percent from the previous year. But between 2020 and 2021, the average sale price increased by almost 41 percent. Our house, for years a depreciating-to-stagnant money pit, was suddenly worth so much that we might have nearly broken even had we decided to sell; but the price point would dictate that buyer would probably be a From Away, and a well-off one.

This trend extends beyond our county. In May, Portland, my former hometown, was named the “hottest luxury housing market in the United States” for the third quarter in a row, its prices up 22 percent from 2023. And yet, despite the rise in housing costs and the state’s evolving national appeal — from wilderness idyll for those who enjoy freezing water, no-sand beaches and insect sieges to a differently commodified version of escape — certain local numbers might suggest that little has changed. The number of children in the public elementary school has remained roughly the same. The town voting rolls haven’t increased much; there were, however, 30 or 40 more car registrations during the pandemic.

Some in town seem invested in change, and more of it may be on the horizon. Given that the community isn’t a monolith and never was, these shifts are not unanimously viewed as either losses or improvements. A committee formed to consider hiring a harbor master. The anonymous sign-posters were busy again when the selectmen decided to no longer allow an annual ritual in which people drag busted docks and boats and appliances into the center of town and host a gathering late into the night, after which, at dawn, a man with a crane takes the junk pile to the dump. Some of the signs were historically indignant: “100+ YEAR … TRADITION.” Others, hung on top of electrical poles, were more taunting: “NICE TRY SELECTMEN.” Others spoke to a broader crisis: “WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO DO?”

The town installed a permanent speed monitor, which I believe is meant to flash when a person is driving above the posted limit, but it’s hard to know for certain. The current monitor is actually the second of its kind, because the original sustained a fatal shooting, and the new one soon acquired half a dozen bullet holes, and so doesn’t work either. The monitor, in alerting nobody to anything save someone’s opposition to it, was maybe more a public referendum on speed management than a speed-management strategy.

Other things are changing, too. The magazine room, like the hedge before it, is failing. Allowing a thing to simply be, it turns out, is a slow path to its extinction. The uninsulated space heats up these days to what must be over 100 degrees during the summer, and for that reason I tend not to go there, and so was surprised to find, while we were supposedly preserving it, that the magazine room is in ruins. The glue is decomposing; the desiccated clippings, when touched, turn to dust. Someday, the walls will be bare.

Our fence, meanwhile, has weathered to a medium-dark gray. The climbing hydrangeas look like goofy, bungling creatures, their paws pushing through the railings on top of the fence, so that I can see them even when I’m behind it. Their invasion is a welcome one. I’ve started to wonder whether if, in the future, the person who owns this house decides to take the fence down, such a decision will prove controversial; might the fence, a once-glaring newcomer, be considered part of the town’s history and thus, like the magazine room, qualify for protection? If nothing else, and in the meantime, will people wish to preserve the tradition of teasing us about it?

I might even wish to preserve that tradition. The familiar ribbing — “How’s your wall?” — is practiced by fewer and fewer people, to the point that now it feels like an affectionate and even nostalgic way of greeting me after I’ve been away. The once-habitual exchange preserves a record, the way the historical society preserves photos of buildings and residents that no longer exist, of the occasional challenges of coexistence, even or especially among well-meaning people who like and respect one another.

One day last summer, as I was standing at the end of my driveway, a woman I’d never seen before walked by. She might have been a new resident, or someone’s guest, or a person on vacation. I experienced an odd mixture of relief and sorrow when she smiled at me and said, “That is such a beautiful fence.”

Heidi Julavits is a writer whose recent memoir is “Directions to Myself.” Fumi Nagasaka is a photographer in New York whose work over the last few years has focused on documenting America. For this assignment, she traveled to three different towns in Maine.

Read by Kirsten Potter

Narration produced by Emma Kehlbeck and Krish Seenivasan

Engineered by Lance Neal

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