Yesterday’s Island/Today’s Nantucket
Vol. 51 No.13 • YesterdaysIsland.com
Souvenirs by Robert P. Barsanti
The storm dropped a period on the summer. It stopped the Opera House Cup. It grounded the Rainbow Fleet. It closed the harbor. All across the world, as Jim Cantore got excited and the cone tightened, people watched the storm take aim at Nantucket. Out here, the boats got dragged out of the water and sat on trailers in yards. Some would slip back in the water, ready to decorate another paragraph or two until October. But most would be shrouded in plastic, stored, and regretted when the wind turns and the sun emerges in September. Sooner or later, the summer will end in a period. Plans and calls were made. Nobody was leaving early, but nobody was staying late. The coach’s whistles were blowing somewhere, far and wee, and Saorise and Stanley came running from the tee shirt stores and life guard stands, back to the fields of Middlesex and UNH. They leapt to their next paragraph as if this writing could be edited and rewritten sometime later. Nothing costs more than time: it is the luxury of August. And we spend it on interest rate changes, subscription fees and tolls when what we would really like to spend it on is another sentence or two on-island. The bill comes due around Brant Point, when you have paid for the last of your time and you have to figure out what’s next. As my old departed department head often said to me, “The boat comes around Brant Point, and it goes around Brant Point.” So it does. In the day before the storm, the boys and I waited for it on the South Shore. The water was warm, tossed, and dotted with jellyfish. We swam in the churn, survived the stings, and went back to reading on the beach. As is our habit, we stayed late on the sand as one group of beachgoers went home for showers and burgers and another group came out for barbecues and a sunset. After a moment, the Ladies sat next to us. They were women of a certain age, with big straw hats and comfortable shoes. They circled around a cooler, pulled out a brick of cheddar cheese, a box of Triscuits, and a large bottle of Chardonnay. In the approach to the storm, puffs of fog stumbled overhead underneath the long streaks of cloud far above. Towards the west, a frame of purple rose from the horizon, while to the east, a frame of white held the end-of-day sun. By this point, the surf had defeated all of the surfers, children, and fathers who needed one last dip. Instead, it rolled in four lines up to a much diminished beach and ticked the seconds away. One wave came within five feet of our position. The next crept closer. So we left. The Ladies stayed. They backed their chairs up, pulled their sweatshirts close, and refilled their glasses. If you have paid for the luxury of August, there is no reward for leaving before the wine runs out. One of my young men volunteered to take their picture for them, and the moment was saved. We slipped behind them, begged their pardon, and emerged on top of a bluff. On one boat or another, they would slip out before the storm and head back to careers, family, and e-mail that had been patiently waiting in an uncomfortable chair. Another paragraph would roll by, and then another. The punctuation will pile up. But sitting in their memories, shared with their friends, and saved on a lock screen, that picture stretched out into their future. continued on page 19
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