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At Large: Nantucket notes
September 15, 2005
By Doug Cabral
I am guilty of having abused Nantucket on countless occasions in this space. I will not lower myself to contend that there was no malice aforethought. There was. When you refer to a place as a "distant, fogbound sandbar" as I have done; when you propose that its residents, unable to afford the service offered them by the Steamship Authority, learn to row to Hyannis and back; when you have suggested that the Quaker whaling captains of whom Nantucketers are so proud thought long and hard before setting out on four-year whaling voyages and, after due deliberation, concluded that, any way you sliced it, four years at sea were better than another day at home; when you've demanded that Nantucketers reimburse their Vineyard partners in ferry service for the decades during which the Vineyard paid Nantucket's overdue bills - well, when the judge then asks, Guilty or not guilty of talking trash about our sister island, I might as well confess.
But, I thought, maybe my hurtful aspersions, which might have been justified then, are no longer true. Maybe the Nantucketers have reformed. Maybe they've taken my fault-finding to heart and remodeled themselves in the image and likeness of the Vineyard. Abashed at the piercing accuracy of my observations, maybe they've said to themselves, We can be a better Nantucket, and we ought to try.
So, in fairness, I spent the weekend there, to take a fresh look, not forgetting the past, mind you, but remembering that folks change, under the influence of good advice and robust encouragement. And if change had occurred, if Nantucket was indeed on a path to be the best fogbound sandbar (sorry) it could be, then some bucking up, an approving word or two, an attaboy from an erstwhile critic, would certainly be in order. It was time to take another look.
The boy and I sailed out there. We did not want a splashy reception, no guided tours. We intended to poke around unremarked, to see the island in its everyday clothes, as it were, get to know the real Nantucket folks for the good-hearted, well meaning, beleaguered (aren't we all), islanders they probably are, albeit holed up in their multi-million dollar, shingle-style cottages.
The first thing to say is that Nantucket, on the right morning, is a splendid place to sail to and to arrive at. About 25 miles from home, it's a satisfying jaunt, with some navigational challenges, rewarded with the thrill of the island's low-slung geography rising like the sun itself ahead of you, if you've steered the correct course. That course runs south of Horseshoe Shoal and the proposed wind farm's tall data collection tower that imposes itself on the otherwise mostly unmarked sea surface. Imagining more than 100 whirling, humming, lighted wind turbines lining the sea route to Nantucket Island, one wonders why that island's inhabitants, all of whom must have traveled to the mainland and back over water, aren't despairing of the prospect.
Ashore and prowling the cobbled streets, I was surprised to find my attention captured by the passing dogs. There are no large dogs on Nantucket. All the dogs are teacup size, or maybe pocketbook-size. Each cobblestone is an Everest to these tiny creatures. Their owners dangle behind saying, "Excuse Sissy, she thinks she owns the place" or "Strumpet, you bad girl, don't you lift your leg on that expensive example of the Nantucket weaving tradition, set on that charming manikin outside this olde gift shoppe." Well, that's not word for word, but it's more or less what they said. But, never mind, the point is that, whereas here at home all the dogs are big, slobbering, tick-bedeviled, leash-less creatures who've just come ashore from a salt water swim and shaken next to you, these Nantucket dogs wear diamond necklaces, get weekly spa treatments, and saunter about with a heedless and condescending air.
Now, the next thing that caught my eye is the spelling these Nantucketers have affected. Every shop - and every nook and cranny, back alley, and second floor porch is one - is a shoppe. Every old tavern or art gallery or ice cream vendor is olde. It's as if Disney's "imagineers" arrived to do a job on Nantucket, whipped all the buildings into gray-shingled, white-trimmed line, found a way to merchandise the stuffing out of the place, and then, looking for a show-stopping finale, said, "Let's top it all off with a bunch of ‘e's'" And indeed, in Nantucket, e's are the favorite toppings, like sprinkles or jimmies on ice cream cones.
Last but not least, a word about art. Now, Moll, who has an unsupportive view of my knowledge and opinions about art, has told me that I am never to discuss art or even use the word, but this observation is not made in the tradition of art criticism. It's more a matter of economics. What I want to know is, if on Nantucket every other store is selling paintings or sculptures or photographs, and if it's already after Labor Day and obviously most of this stuff has failed to attract buyers, how come it's still so expensive? Doesn't the supply of unsold art, as common as sand at ‘Sconset, suggest that there should be loads of pictures, sculptures, and photographs available at bargain prices? Well, there aren't any bargains. Maybe it's because the rotten dory perched in the marsh at sundown will be as marketable next year as it was not this year. Perhaps there's a mid-winter season coming for uber-commercial Nantucket, something Vineyard merchants can only dream and snuffle about, or perhaps these Nantucket purveyors are just bloody well determined to get their price, or to hell with it. Who knows, but speaking as someone who is practically forbidden to even look at a painting, the pricing thing is a good old-fashioned Nantucket mystery to me.
On the way home, the wind quit, the boy napped in the cockpit while we plodded along, the wind farm data tower spent the better part of an hour getting astern of us, and I decided that the jury is still out on Nantucket. One weekend's investigation hasn't decided the matter. We'll have to visit again, maybe a couple of times.
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