The Stormy Start of it All

Once upon a time, in the middle of a blizzard, by a bend in a Boston river, Princess Briel was born. Snow was piled so high that the doctors cross-country skied their way to the hospital. Roads were closed for a week. She arrived into a family already in motion: a brother disappointed to have another sister, a sister deeply pleased to have one, a mother filled with to-do lists, and a father who would like to be thought of as wise.

She grew up in a small town on a small island, where she swam and walked the beach every chance she got. If the wind was just right, she was willing to sail, but only if the wind was just right. Her bangs were crooked, thanks to kitchen-chair haircuts; her favorite swimsuit had a skirt and a tie; and she wore a fish crown instead of a tiara. Her polish was always slightly askew, and that was the point.

In her little town, on that little island, the locals spoke with funny accents about wise and witty things. The grown-ups played tennis, volunteered on committees and rode bikes to cocktail parties. The teenagers worked and drank beers on the beach. The elders kept watch over traditions, manners, and the art of celebrating family and community in equal measure. Bookstores were for rainy days, puddle-jumping was expected, and libraries made reading feel like magic, hosting authors who showed her that stories had creators, and that becoming one was a possibility. 

Princess Briel got her first job at eight, fetching ice-cream cones for the Mayor of Dock Street. At twelve, she punched her first time card at the local clothing shop, folding sweaters in the stock room. By eighteen, she split her days and nights between the harbormaster’s dock and the Seafood Shanty, slowing things down by day and mixing them up after dark.

By the time Princess Briel was grown, she had learned how to work, how to laugh with the world around her, and how to belong to a place without needing to stay forever. Her deep nostalgia for community became a conundrum as she navigated the coast from east to west and north to south. Along the way, she discovered that a creative mind, a practical spirit, and a New England birthright were a reliable recipe for kerfuffles. She was, simply put, an oxymoron.