From the recently discovered diary of whaling Capt. Jonah Caleb Harkins Smith-Smythe, or Smitty, as he was known to his crew and friends.
June the 4th, 1816 — My vessel, All’s Whale that Ends Whale, fitted and seaworthy from the shipyard at Falmouth, delayed by standby list out of Woods Hole, finally arrives at Holmes Hole. I am accompanied by my wife Elsabeth and two children, Jonah Caleb and Caleb Jonah.
Crossing over, the waters were tranquil and azure blue, though as we neared shore, have to navigate around “clammers” hip-deep in water, digging for local delicacy, quahogs (we’re told, steamed and eaten right out of shell or made into a souplike dish, unappetizing to my palate, but who knows? I never thought I’d like jellied eel). We moored, dropped sail, ate supper — salt pork and hardtack biscuits — checked tide charts, and slept aboard ship.
June the 5th — Dawn broke; we row dinghy to shore. Greeted by three strapping lads, each anxious to join my crew and make their fortunes, who helped with our steamer trunks. One lad, a Wampanoag native, is quite knowledgeable in whaling, he explains — the result of tribal history of the pursuit which far predates our forays.
Mid-morning, we go in search of temporary family lodging. Sparse choices to let by day or week, as property costs have risen to the heavens since the spate of what they call “summer people,” who come to escape the heat and citified pressures of Fall River, New Bedford, and Boston. Innkeepers refer to me and my like as unwelcome fortune seekers — despite revenues we bring to the Island. We’re hardly the first interlopers. Ask Moshup of the Wampanoags, who, 10,000 years ago, is said to have lamented, “Oh no, not more wash-ashores.”
June the 6th to 8th — We secure rooms at a public house priced in wampum (not sure of wampum exchange rate to the dollar) or silver pieces (which I’m trying to conserve). Our accommodations are a converted loft above a barn on Upper Main Street, Edgartown, shared with livestock equally discontent to share quarters with us. Consumed the last of our packed provisions — hardtack biscuits harder than ever — had a night’s sleep, apart from competition from bovine roommates.
June the 9th — Daylight hours, we search for permanent quarters; with help of a “realtor” — a new profession, middlemen who match home seekers and sellers or landlords, and remarkably, are remunerated by both. There is no end to the ways folks find to make a farthing. Our “realtor” led us from one “chop” to the other (I’d love a chop of any kind right now — lamb, pork, or beef), and all the way to the cliffs. But alas, so far, no home for the Smith-Smythes.
Evening — Famished from our housing hunt, our next quarry is a hearty meal (perhaps one of those chops). Dining prices are dear, they say, due to bringing all provisions in by boat. Labor costs are high as well; young folks being wooed off-Island for better employ, or even to attend that fancy college in Cambridge. We find a tavern with passable fare — thick white broth made of those same clams, they call it “chowder,” and meaty fish called “stripers,” followed by tasty, but pricey, cobbler. Bellies full, but poorer for it, we retire to slumber with our barnmates.
June the 10th to 19th — We wander like vagabonds, familiarizing ourselves with new environs. Dogs are ubiquitous — mostly big black dogs, an unofficial emblem of the Island. Horse and buggy traffic is congested in commerce areas, and even out in farmlands. Some folks ride bicycles — or velocipedes — on the roadsides, running along, hopping on the seat, balancing, and gliding for a few feet, then repeating the same, wobbly and weaving, while the rushed locals complain these new gadgets impede travel and create hazards, often shouting out, “Ban the bikes.”
At long last, thanks to our realtor, we find our domicile, a commodious attic space in an aging clapboard house — two beds, one for the missus and myself, one for the boys — at, I must say, unconscionable cost. As it is summertime, we’ll be paying more than $10 per week for room, $12 for room and board. Where will this end? I vow, if successful in my whaling ventures, to build my own home on the row of stately white domains with widow’s watch atop (though dear wife abhors the term; tells me she fully expects me to return, healthy and wealthy, from the seas).
June the 20th — I set out to recruit a full crew, as many as twoscore (including the lads who helped us when we docked), all looking to trade family chores and sequestered Island life for an adventurous voyage to warmer climes of the Southern Hemisphere, where a bounty of blubber awaits. Crew to be paid only if we are successful, but if so, the reward is great for all. Whale oil is gold, or better than gold, because it heats, lights, and even provides some nourishment. They say nothing will ever be as valuable as this whale oil — the key to modern life.
June the 30th — One week from today, I set sail. Despite its initially reserved demeanor, we have come to rather like this Island. Neighbors have warmed up; merchants have extended credit based on my upcoming prospects. I have even put a down payment on a parcel of land on Water Street, and commissioned a builder to draw plans for our home (though when asked for a budget and timeline, he demurs, as labor is at a premium — a skilled carpenter can command a surgeon’s salary — and completion dates are, in his words, “at best, fickle”).
July the 4th — Flag-waving, fife-playing, and a lovely parade. Dear wife has befriended another captain’s spouse, a widow (sadly) who has acted as guide to quirky local customs (gathering for potluck meals, where everyone brings a dish of varying quality, yielding to wild turkeys in the roadways, leaving your doors unlocked, engaging in political debate on any issue at the drop of a hat). Wife tells me she has a notion for business while I am at sea — an ice cream shop, the new novelty, she feels is ideal here during the warmer months. I think she’s a bit mad but again, who knows?
July the 5th — Crew members and I work until wee hours to ready All’s Whale for voyage. Kiss the missus goodbye, tuck the boys into bed. Set sail before dawn.
July the 6th and beyond — At sea. Will record adventures as they occur, and keep a logbook that may act as an historic record. On our salty days, I will miss that place — Noepe, the Rock, Martha’s Vineyard — though I do wish they would make up their minds what it’s called. I hope not too many others discover it, even seasonally, and ruin it for the rest of us, as it now feels like home.
The rest of Captain Smitty’s journal has, so far, not been found. But we shall keep a vigil in case it appears.