When my husband and I first bought our cabin in Chilmark in 1977, we couldn’t wait to share it with everyone: family, friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, people we just met on the subway, anyone and everyone.
From the Fourth of July till Labor Day, there were always cars, motorcycles, scooters, and/or vans parked and scattered around the less-than-two-thirds-of-an-acre of what we called our patch of paradise.
We’d pile into my mother’s old Chevy Vega, eight or nine of us, kids on laps, sandwiches and drinks packed in the cooler, assorted colorful beach towels still damp from the day before’s foray, a huge blanket, umbrellas, juggling balls and juggling pins (we were learning to juggle pins), and a large plastic bottle of Coppertone No. 5. Our back window was covered with Lucy Vincent stickers like some Andy Warhol piece of art.
There was always room for a hitchhiker or two. Even in those old days, folks would not have been able to get on the coveted sand without a walk-on pass or some documentation. There but for the grace of God … go … us.
All of us had stained our bathing suits with a powdery gray from sitting in the clay baths of the Gay Head cliffs. We walked the length of the beach nude with seaweed, à la Adam and Eve, and at the end of the day, with the sun setting, we jumped into the surf to wash off. Feel this, someone would invariably command, it’s like velvet. And indeed our skin, which had celebrated the salt and sun for hours, now felt like velvet. It really did.
Cars were mostly clunkers with dented doors, windows blown out and taped, bumpers tied on with steel wire. Parties were potluck and included (I’m guessing here, but probably right) Mike Wallace and his electrician and Carly Simon and her plumber, Bill Styron and his roofer. All were welcome.
I think here is where we cue the musicians — all together, now (musical notes): Those were the days, my friend; we thought they’d never end.
But end they did. Our kids grew up, left home. The walk was too long to get to the nude beach, so we plopped as close to the entrance as possible. Climbing the cliffs became a no-no, so no more clay baths. Cars turned into Lexuses and Beamers. Parties became catered events, and the Island became the No. 1 destination wedding spot.
It is the end of an era. It’s true I wouldn’t trade those days for the world (not that I own the world). But now — now the Island isn’t lazy, casual, wear-what-you-want. (Recently, my friend, singer/songwriter Isaac Taylor, suggested in a post that we declare August “Hitchhiking Month.”)
The change seemed to happen overnight. One day we woke up and craved quiet. No more 22 sandwiches and three umbrellas and seven towels. No more doing three washes a day, five sets of sheets drying in the hot sun on the makeshift clothesline. No more Chevy Vega. We found out melanoma was a real thing, so sunscreen replaced Coppertone, and no more sitting in direct sun until after 4 pm. And no more picking up folks at the ferry.
Unless, of course, we have invited friends. And we do invite friends. We only invite people we love, people who are easy.
But a few days before they are due to arrive, and after I have shopped at Stop & Shop for everything on sale and Cronig’s for the things I couldn’t find at Stop & Shop, I find myself hoping for a nor’easter. I know it’s August, so I know logically there’ll be no snow. So my next fantasy is that the boats aren’t running. One of them breaks down, and the swells are 40 feet, and all the boats are canceled.
This is ridiculous, because we invited these people because we love them. And we love spending time with them. So why oh why do I hope something will happen (nothing earth-shattering)? But something, and they will call and cancel.
There is a New Yorker cartoon I think I must have inspired, although I don’t know the artist. There is a woman dressed in her finest, she’s spread-eagle on her big soft chair. Her shoes are off. Her expression is sheer relief. And the caption is, “They canceled.”
I don’t remember posing for that drawing.
