While it may be true that “no man is an island,” my experience on Maine’s islands has convinced me that, over time, each island tends to develop its own quirky and distinct personality. This no doubt stems from the particular challenges inherent in all such isolated communities.

Island life after all, is inevitably shaped by one common geographic imperative; the fact that people, supplies, energy and virtually every other necessity must at some point be “shipped over” from the mainland. There’s simply no getting around it. So, while not exactly compelled to become bosom buddies, islanders are highly motivated to develop a degree of cooperation in order insure that community life functions smoothly.

That’s not to say that everybody gets along, far from it. Anyone familiar with the highly publicized Matinicus Island “lobster wars” will tell you that when it comes to certain aspects of island life familiarity can and often does breed shocking levels of contempt. Long before the recent escalation of vandalism and violence among and between the local lobstermen, Matinicus had earned its well-deserved reputation as a tough no-nonsense outpost, populated by independent folks who had their own ideas about interpreting the law of the sea and who gave no quarter to interlopers.

Several years ago I had an opportunity to interview Matinicus’ oldest resident. Then nearly 90 years of age, the ironically named Mr. Young, a proud member of one of the island’s founding families, had only recently taken to spending his winters off-island.

From October through April he rented an apartment in Rockland. But, each spring he headed back down to the docks, loaded his summer provisions into a 22-foot open wooden boat and prepared to make the 20-plus mile voyage back to his island home.

Just as he was getting ready to cast off, a local fisherman who’d been quietly observing the elderly gentleman’s progress with a fair amount of skepticism asked,

“Where you headed?’

“I’m going to Matinicus,” replied Mr. Young

“You got friends out there?’

“Ayuh.”

Casting a worried glance toward the open ocean the fellow shook his head and mumbled, “You’d better.”

Last summer I was invited to do a performance at the old community hall on picturesque Little Cranberry Island. It was not my first trip to Little Cranberry. In fact I'd been there on numerous occasions, most recently in the late '90s to film a CBS Postcard. On that particular visit I had my first real-world opportunity to practice what Charles Kuralt had once told me was his “golden rule” of TV journalism.

Shortly after I first went to work for him at CBS News, Charles explained that every now and then I could expect to arrive on location ready to do a story only to discover that the actual story wasn’t nearly as interesting as the brass in their offices on West 57th St. back in New York had expected it to be. His advice as to how to proceed when faced with such a dilemma? Go out and look for another story.

Our original goal in coming to Little Cranberry that summer had been to interview the postmistress at the tiny island Post Office. Someone had suggested that she would make a great subject for a story and she’d certainly been animated and enthusiastic in phone conversations prior to our arrival. But, when we actually showed up, she acted strangely distracted and even a bit blasé.

The reason for her curious lack of enthusiasm became clear when we learned that her eldest daughter was scheduled to graduate that very evening from the 8th and final grade of the island’s tiny K-8 schoolhouse. Naturally enough, the fact that her firstborn would soon be leaving to pursue the remainder of her education off-island occupied her full attention.

We also learned that mom had plenty of reasons to be proud. After all, her daughter had just been elected class valedictorian, not to mention best dressed, worst dressed, class clown and most likely to succeed. You can add pretty much anything else you like to that list as well. Since, it turned out that there was exactly one student participating in that year’s graduation ceremony and she was that student!

Needless to say we scrapped the Post Office story and, true to Kuralt’s predictions, the one we ended up broadcasting called “Island Graduation” was a far better choice. In fact it proved to be one of the most moving and memorable essays broadcast on the show.

The story was all we could have asked for; quirky, funny and heartwarming. But, most of all, it was a story which could only have happened on an island in Maine.