Our American Summer Vacation Part II: Nantucket
Nantucket...even the name sounds romantic. Upon Joaquin’s request, he and I had been reading Moby Dick. I had attempted this novel years ago and had quickly realized that I did not want to spend the energy required to read it; however, I was proud of Joaquin’s request and obliged. Melville did not paint a romantic portrait of Nantucket, rather it was Ishmael’s search for adventure and the idea of seeing new horizons, going out on a vast sea that struck me as romantic. The dingy, dark description of the island with odors of smelling fish and tattooed cannibals called out to me across the American landscape. I was born and grew up in port towns, but Nantucket seemed like a delicacy just out of my grasp, so to Nantucket, we ventured.
To get to Nantucket, one must catch a ferry, so Joaquin and I drove from Plymouth to Hyannis with the heavy summer rain pelting our little rental car. The entire way to Hyannis, I gripped the steering wheel revealing the white of my knuckles on my otherwise brown hands. Images of weird Massachusetts roadways meant to kill me flashed through my mind as the huge watery ammunition sought to send me off the road or blind me from all the obstacles that “foreign” roads presented. Because of my superior driving skills and my willingness to channel my inner grandmother, we made it to Hyannis without any near death incidents. The next challenge was to find parking. If ever you have traveled, you know that parking is an economic enterprise akin to extortion. People gladly charge you an exorbitant sum merely for space (air essentially). Airports are the worst! If money can be made, then count on Americans to find a way! We are very good at capitalizing on figments of our imagination like time and ownership and possibility. Anyway, that is for a more philosophical blog in the future. We drove around Hyannis for a while searching for a place to park, and eventually found a grass lot a few blocks away from the ferry station. I forked over some cash, and Joaquin and I stood for a moment in the violent rain until we formulated a plan to run like hell to the ferry station. We were like Olympic athletes, jumping over huge puddles, rain dripping down our faces like those Gatorade commercials where the athlete’s sweat is tinged in the brilliant colors of artificially colored electrolytes. Our rain soaked clothes clung to our ripped physiques as everyone stared at our pure athleticism in awe and admiration. Actually, we looked and felt like drowned rats, but what can I say, the spirit of Ishmael’s romanticism took control over me for a second.
At the station, wet socks, hair plastered to our heads, and not entirely happy, we purchased our tickets for the ferry. The next part of this adventure required us to stand on a covered dock and wait. While I waited, my toes making slushing sounds in my socks, and my sweater permanently damp and no longer capable of keeping me warm, I listened to my dear son complain about how we should have chosen the slow ferry and not the hi-speed ferry. The slow ferry was more of an authentic experience, and the hi-speed, although faster, was just lame. In addition to the spewing of ungratefulness filling my ears, my personal bubble was being violated about every two minutes by an oblivious woman and her child who thought nothing of their movements. The main culprit was a curly headed little toddler dressed in a yellow rain jacket. By all means, this little creature could have been considered cute, maybe even adorable, but her consistent inadvertent touching of me blinded me from acknowledging her as anything other than irritating. Everytime her mother moved, her huge bag slung over her shoulder brushed up against me, and any attempt I made to move away, it seemed they took as an opportunity to advance nearer to me. The two oblivious creatures had apparently been born on another planet that did not respect personal space. I believed the woman to be the devil incarnate, and her little imp of a child to be her demon spawn. This may not seem like a big deal to some, but those who are introverted by nature will understand the horror of being surrounded by a throng of strangers who have no concept other than themselves and require not only their space but everyone else’s space in order to be comfortable. It is like the Chinese water torture. When will the introvert explode? They probably already have, but no one can see it, because the introvert is highly adept at inwardly crumbling and no one knowing it. I don’t know how many explosions were happening inside of me on that platform, but know that at least a small mountain landscape was forever changed by the volcanic activity surging through my veins.
The crowd on the platform were eventually ushered through the gates and onto the ferry. All of the desirable window seats quickly filled up, so Joaquin and I found a seat close to the doors so that he could easily explore the deck of the ferry. I also made sure we were far from the offensive mother and child. He opted to go on the deck for most of the journey, which made me incredibly happy, as his complaints had worn down my patience to a nub. The space was very appreciated. It allowed me to refocus my frayed nerves and come up with solutions to salvage what had already been a rough morning. I would not let my visit to Nantucket be destroyed by the shitty attitude I had developed through the course of the morning. My plan was as follows: Buy a new pair of socks. What can I say? It doesn’t take much to make me happy.
Stepping off the ferry, Nantucket unfolded itself before our eyes: Brick walkways and buildings of olden times, cobblestone streets, quaint shops with engraved wooden signs, sweet smells of ice cream and baked sweets, colorfully clad tourists pedaling by on bicycles. The air of this town seemed to blow our negativity leeward, and both Joaquin and I walked forward with excitement and a sense of a pleasant unknown pulsing through our bodies. Our first stop was a tourist shop where one could find everything from keychains to underwear emblazoned with the word “Nantucket.” I found my socks. They were beautiful creations with little blue whales and of course the word “Nantucket” embroidered into the trim. My goal completed, and my feet warmly cushioned in dry socks, we made our way to the Whaling Museum. Joaquin, being an excellent researcher, had spotted the Whaling Museum on Google Maps when we were trying to find out what to do on this lovely island. My initial plan was just to get there and then see if we could locate all of the dive inns and restaurants that Ishmael had described in the early chapters of Moby Dick, but Joaquin took a more practical approach and used modern technology to formulate a plan.
The Whaling Museum presented the rich history of Nantucket and gave Joaquin and me a clear picture of what life must have been like in the whaling days. Whaling was a rite of passage for young men seeking to prove their financial independence and their manhood. Women would wait for their husbands and their sons to return and know by the awful smell of boiling whale that it would not be too long before they returned. (Can you imagine waiting at home, and then being enveloped in an invisible cloud of rank, choking odor, and thinking, “Ahhhh, my husband is almost home”?) People from around the world would burn their candles and dob their skin with ambergris at the expense of many lives, both whalers and whales alike. It was an island built on industry.
Joaquin and I listened to a lecture about whaling. We learned about the entire process of killing a whale. We learned about massive amounts of blood being blasted into the air, of boats being dragged for miles and sometimes pulled under; we learned about the intensive, rank job of cutting and boiling down the whale. I could not help but think that Ishmael’s fantasies of the ocean and nobility of whaling were a bit misguided. There was nothing noble about whaling beyond the whaler’s determination to provide income for their families at all cost. It was a dirty, gruesome, danger-wrought endeavor that stunk of human greed and the tendency to quickly deplete profitable resources with no thought to conservation.
After the Whaling Museum, Joaquin and I walked around the town a bit. We took a tour of the Oldest House on the island and eventually found our way to the founder of Macy’s opulent abode. According to the tour guide, Macy had built two identical homes next to his own for his sons. The stipulation for ownership of the homes was that they were not to marry. I could not decide if Macy was a generous father or a stifling control freak. At any rate, he had money, and his sons obviously valued wealth over commitment because they took the deal. We ended our Nantucket adventures with an appropriate meal of the local fare, fish and chips, and caught the slow moving ferry back to Hyannis. I did not really notice any difference between this ferry and the hi-speed one except the travel time, but it was a little less expensive, and Joaquin was happy.
We had enjoyed our day in Nantucket and wished we had arranged more time there. I will go back one day, with an overflowing pocket book, and fully indulge in all that the island has to offer. It was clear to me that this island was the epitome of America’s capitalistic mindset and had experienced both the negative repercussions and the positive effects of enterprise. It was no different in the modern day, catering to the tourist industry, and here I was, fully a part of this economic, capitalistic mindset as I walked contentedly down the brick streets in my whale socks fully satiated with deep- fried cod and beer.
Our departure from the island
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