How do we actually hire a teacher for our island school? Short of putting each applicant through a rigorous battery of psychological tests akin to what NASA is considering for potential astronauts who think they want to sign up to go to Mars—well, actually, we’d like to do that. The ideal candidate would pass NASA’s array of examinations, have lots of hobbies, not be afraid of large dogs, small airplanes, wild outlaw fishermen, or crummy TV reception”¦ oh, and be certified in Maine to teach kindergarten through eighth grade.

Usually, the first thing we try to do is scare the applicant away. We describe neighbors armed and dangerous (though always willing to lend that cup of sugar,) six-day stretches of pea-soup fog, 20-foot seas, marginal cell phone reception, and a complete and total lack of latte. That all makes a few applicants smile. How odd.

The Matinicus teacher search process might not resemble what you were taught at the career center at your college. Never mind dressing for success; just plan on trying not to freeze to death. It’s fair to assume that the wind will be blowing on the day of your interview. Don’t talk to us like you’re trying to sell us a new car. “I’m the one you need because”¦” “I’ve never actually seen the ocean but I feel in my soul that I am an islander at heart;” “Facilitating inspiration is my passion;” and “I’ve always loved the idea of living in a quaint little village” are the wrong things to say.

Tell us how you are going to fix all of our problems, lead children to righteousness, or bring the light of learning to our forgotten speck off the edge of civilization and you will not get an interview. You might get a restraining order.

We need somebody who can honestly admit that they haven’t got the foggiest idea what teaching in a one-room school on an isolated island is going to be like, and who is okay with that. An adventurous spirit helps.

Experience has taught us that there is far more to finding the right teacher than comparing qualifications on paper. Some of the things we’d like to talk about are, to be frank, a little weird. Occasionally we’ve spent more time trying to ascertain whether somebody would keep an eye on how much heating oil they had left than we have discussing their philosophy of education. So, we now invite the most promising applicants to spend the night, if their own schedule allows, and we try to make sure they are on the island long enough to find themselves alone for a while. What does it feel like? If they are going to “be freaked out” they may as well discover that now, before they sign on for this duty.

On a beautiful day in April, one applicant landed at the island airstrip with the mail aboard the red, white and blue plane. This was a deceptively gorgeous day, and a deceptively easy transportation experience.

The Sunbeam was at the wharf that day, so I took the prospective teacher aboard for a cup of coffee with the engineer and the cook. At 3:00 p.m., the kids were turning on the Tandberg video-conferencing unit for an Outer Islands Student Council meeting; we brought her to the school to observe that unique element of an island education. After school we encouraged her to take a walk on the beach with the ed tech who had to walk dogs Frank and Rossi anyway. Only about an hour of her visit was taken up with the formal interview. She told us that her first teaching job had been in outback Australia years ago.

The next day just happened to be “oil boat day.” She observed the line of trucks on the wharf waiting with their barrels for diesel and kerosene from the little tanker, and the power company man hoping for a few thousand gallons for the generators. This part of island living can be hard to explain.

As we delivered her to the airstrip for her flight to the mainland, we assured her that the weather wasn’t usually this agreeable. In fact, we tried to convince her that it was usually lousy. She smiled.

A few weeks later, she later told me about the other passenger on the flight headed back to Rockland. Evidently there had been a census guy here, and as soon as the airplane engine started he began hyperventilating into a paper bag. Our teacher asked, “So, did you set that up just for my benefit?”

Ah, good—a sense of humor, too.

Eva Murray, a former Matinicus teacher, went through a shorter version of the same experience in May, 1987.