“Oooo, it’s cold.”

For a veteran beach bum, that’s not exactly a stoic response after sticking one’s feet in the Atlantic, but it was true, especially after suffering through the hot, humid weather last month.

Nothing is quite so relaxing as a weekend at the beach, or in my case, a weekend of beach hopping. Over three days, I visited four beaches; two are old favorites, one a newer discovery and one I’d never visited before. My feet tested the waters, and my eyes feasted on the sights that give each beach its own charm.

Ever since I can remember, beaches have been a big part of my summers. My family has pictures of a little me wiggling my toes in the Atlantic at various sandy or rocky getaways, and many family stories from years past stem from picnics at beaches all along the coast. Just driving by some points along Route 1 prompts a tale or two accompanied by details of feasts that make your mouth water.

My favorite beach is one I visit nearly every time I go Down East. Roque Bluffs State Park has the loveliest beach I’ve seen in Maine and just walking along the water’s edge evokes memory after memory. My grandfather never tired of traipsing along the beach, picking up odd colored and shaped rocks, seashells and bits of driftwood. He always marveled at the smoothness of the stones or the twisted knots of the wood.

On this particular Friday afternoon, the Bluffs were nearly deserted when my grandmother and I arrived for our picnic. About a half dozen little groups were scattered the length of the beach; many had children who darted here and there, carting dry seaweed around like trophies and playing in the sand.

We anchored our blanket and got down to the business of eating lunch, flicking spiders away, and thinking food always tastes better with sand at your feet and the sun in your face.

But as the wind started to blow off the water and the clouds rolled in, folks began packing up until only six intrepid souls remained. My grandmother and I stowed our leftovers in the car and headed down the beach, enjoying the solitude, with the breeze whistling in our ears and the crunch of rock and sand under our feet. By the time we had reached the end of beach and climbed the rocky point, the sun had peeked through. On the trip back to the car, I took the plunge, uttering my first “Oooo, it’s cold” of the weekend.

We headed home toward Machias, detouring to Duck Cove, on one of the many side roads Maine is famous for. The reward for traveling at a snail’s pace over a dirt road came in the form of a hillside covered in lupine that looked out over the sea, and a man “from away” who stood down in the little hollow at the bottom of the hill, painting his vision of Maine.

Saturday meant another beach. We headed for Mount Desert Island, roaming through Northeast Harbor and winding up the hill, only to zip back down to Seal Harbor and its public beach, another favorite where my grandparents often took me and my brothers when we were on summer vacation. Now that I’m older, the beach somehow seems smaller, but the view remains the same. Bumpkin that I am, I remember my fascination with the little bathhouse adjacent to the parking lot. And then there was the sprinkler incident on the hill beside the parking lot; it seems like I spent more time that long-ago afternoon jumping over the sprinkler than cavorting in the surf.

Seal Harbor was the most crowded of all the beaches during my weekend tour. That’s not to say you couldn’t find a place to set up housekeeping. Maybe, just maybe, there were 150 to 200 people lining the shore, drinking in another warm day and watching the antics of a group of kids yelping and laughing as the cold water washed over them. Folks were friendly, smiling and saying hi. One barefoot man, picking his way through one of the rocky areas, said, “You were smart. You brought beach shoes.” Then with a slightly sorrowful shake of his head, he looked back down to see where his feet were stepping.

Sunday was a two-beach day. My family had planned a bit of a get-together. Seven of us, along with my two dogs, met in Ellsworth midmorning, then headed for the public beach at Lamoine. We didn’t visit the state park; we drove right past to the end of the road.

Lamoine Beach is my idea of a dead end. Coming out of woods, the wide open vista makes you take a deep breath just to take in the mountains to the right, the curving shore to the left and the blue, blue water before you.

Before I’d even changed my shoes, the dogs were jerking at their leashes, ready to hit the beach. Instead of their usual pursuit of bugs in the bushes, they headed for the water, dragging me behind them (Let me explain: Together the two of them weigh more than 160 pounds). They splashed around for a while, then made a beeline for some mudflats. Yippee.

After extricating ourselves, we walked far down the beach, past a couple of summer cottages. By that time, Bear and Max were beginning to tucker out — not to mention me — so we headed back to our party and lunch.

Fresh lemonade, potato salad and plenty of sandwiches made the rounds while we watched folks picnicking, playing and chatting. One man tried to get a red kite up. After a few abortive tries (“It hasn’t got a tail,” we exclaimed, or “Give it more line”), up it went, higher and higher, a dot above us.

We finished stuffing ourselves and about midafternoon parted ways, the Machias crowd headed one way, the Pineo clan to our latest discovery, the causeway to Sears Island.

The beach lining the road to the island is typical for Maine, both sandy and rocky. The view, in general, was lovely, except for the sight of a couple of plant complexes farther along the shore on each side of the road. That, however, didn’t stop us from enjoying the breeze, wading along the shoreline and exclaiming over the floating baby crabs, no more than an inch wide, coming in with the tide.

After tramping up and down the beach a few times and walking the dogs yet again, we decided to call it a day, piling into our vehicles and heading for home with more tales of golden days along Maine’s coast.

Janine Pineo is a NEWS copy editor.