When I was first getting to know my partner, Michael, I learned he was connected to a Maine island. His mother, Leona, summered on Matinicus, an island more than 20 miles southeast of Rockland, nearly every year since she was a girl.

When Michael told me he visited her there at least once a summer, I exclaimed, “Matinicus – how romantic!”

I clearly remember Michael’s response. “Romantic?! What about the two-hour ferry ride in the fog? What about the fish guts and the seagull poop?”

Ever the one to wear rose-colored glasses, I was able to overlook those concerns when I made my maiden voyage to Matinicus Island a few weeks ago. We drove to Rockland in torrential rain, our many satchels ensconced in black trash bags. But by the time we arrived at the ferry terminal, the deluge had subsided, leaving sticky fog and choppy seas.

For the first time in my life, I experienced seasickness and had to take my green, queasy self to an inside bench near the restroom. (This will teach me to eat donut holes before embarking on a seafaring adventure.) I rested my head on Michael’s shoulder, thanking God we were using Penobscot Island Air for our return trip. Mercifully, I went to sleep and when I opened my eyes again, our destination was in view, along with a flirtatious sun.

Over the next four days, my life was filled with reading, napping, walking and eating – exactly my intent. I drank copious cups of tea, knit a scarf and played cribbage. I puttered about in drawstring pants and a T-shirt. Wore no mascara and my hair in a perpetual state of frizzy curls.

The island historian, Suzanne, introduced me to “Matinicus time.” In her house, the clocks have no hands.

Leona took me on a walking tour of the 740-acre island, introducing me to Southern Sand Beach and the cemetery, as well as to colorful characters, many of them lobstermen. She’s fond of saying, “Wave to all. Talk about none. You’re probably related to every one.” We sauntered down grassy paths and dirt roads, the air redolent with the scent of raspberries and sea roses.

I liked the looks of the stalwart houses with their peeling paint and stone foundations, piles of brightly painted lobster buoys and traps in the dooryards, laundry flapping on the lines. I learned the islanders save and reuse everything. Every stick of furniture, every brick, every board has to be brought from the mainland.

I slept soundly every night, lulled to dreamland by the harbor’s bell buoy. I had been warned the clanging could be annoying, but I found it pleasant and assuring. I walked to the harbor first thing every morning, looking out past the breakwater towards home, not missing my busy life at all.

On the day of our departure, I welcomed the fog and the fact that the plane couldn’t leave as scheduled. I wasn’t ready to go “off-island.” While we waited, we searched the beaches one more time for sea glass and sand dollars, my pockets full of bright white pebbles. As the afternoon gave way to evening, patches of blue appeared and suddenly it was sunny. The plane buzzed the harbor four hours behind schedule, and I made a run for the house. With hardly a second for a proper goodbye, I was introduced to another aspect of “Matinicus time.”

Less than 20 minutes later, I set my feet on the ground at Owl’s Head. I honestly couldn’t remember when I’d felt more rested. As we rode down Route 1 toward home, Michael and I planned our next visit to his mother and her island.