Category: Animals, General

Cape Cod and its archipelago can be seen from the planes that ply the coast between Boston and Washington connecting the nation’s academic and political capitals. Named for the now decimated fish species that, along with whale-blubber, was the lynchpin of the area’s economy for several centuries, the cape is a spiraling peninsula – its shape resembling a skinny arm trying to flex its bicep – and the gateway to two famous islands to the South: Martha’s Vineyard, and the sickle-shaped Nantucket, where we are headed. From Logan airport it’s a two and a half hour bus ride to Hyannis, from where ferries depart for the island, a one or three hour voyage depending on if you opt for the fast service or the cheaper alternative of hopping on a freighter.

I’m here with a group of 10 or so friends as a last trip for two current roommates who are moving to Europe and to visit a former roommate who has moved here for the summer to do a work placement on an organic farm. One of the few things I do know about staying on Nantucket is that camping is not permitted. We have dragged our tents up from Washington D.C. because we’re allowed to camp on the grounds of the farm where our friend works. Hotels and hostels are not in evidence and I can only assume that the other tourists are staying in holiday-homes.

From the outset I have been skeptical about this trip. Nantucket and in fact the entire of Cape Cod are, to Americans, synonymous with the vacationing of the posh, “preppy” and powerful (even as we are there, Barrack Obama is taking a working vacation in Martha’s Vineyard, while the Kennedy family, I am told, have a “compound” in Hyannis – I imagine a gated complex, walled off from the riff-raff so the remnants of this faded dynasty can preserve the mystique that is somehow still accorded to them). With my new found love of the great outdoors, and living as I do in the nation that invented the national park, the prospect of spending my camping trip alongside the unreconstructed upper-classes of New England and their whinging, spoilt kids makes me want to scratch my own face off. But my opposing instinct is to try to find something interesting, novel and worth exploring in even the most garishly commercial of tourist spots. Despite the battering that the island has taken by the swells of seasonal tourists, there might be remnants of the desolate outpost that had so inspired Herman Melville (not that I’ve ever read Moby Dick).

We arrive on the fast ferry in the late afternoon, just in time to pick up some bikes before the rental place shuts. Cycling turns out to be a great way to get around the island and just about justifies the high cost of rental ($60 for the weekend). About a half hour ride from the main town, we set up camp, as it turns out, in the backyard of our friend’s employer between a barn and a chicken coup.

On the first evening in Nantucket we get take-out pizza and a 12 pack of beer and go down to the harbor front in Nantucket town. The main town center manages to retain a quaint charm with its cobbled streets and wood paneled shop fronts. The island’s nickname of “the Grey Lady” comes partly, from the fog that descends in the winter months, but also from the distinctive grey wooden tiles that cover the outsides of the buildings. But look closely through those rustic shop windows and you’ll see expensive designer jewelry, cashmere sweaters selling for $2,000 and other conspicuous trappings of high-end consumerism. As we sit on the sand eating, drinking and catching up under the stars, the teenaged holidaymakers are starting to fill the promenade dressed in their Vineyard Vines polo shirts and Sperry Top-Siders, the cocksure heirs to New England’s Old Money. Closer to midnight a cop arrives to move us on. When we ask what the problem is, he explains that Jerry Stiller lives nearby (he says the name with the same awed reverence that you might say “a wondrous Technicolor coat” to an audience of 5 year olds). “Jerry Stiller gets very angry about people making noise while he’s on his vacation and is liable to complain to the police.” Apparently, in Nantucket invoking the name of a minor celebrity is all the justification you need to evict people from a public place.

The next day we head to the jetties beach on the North side of the island. All my fears about Nantucket are confirmed. Every inch of sand is heaving with pasty-skinned tourists and their beach gear. Blankets and parasols stretch far along the beach and toddlers in floppy hats waddle in and out of them idly pulling wedgies out of their butts with one hand while picking their tiny noses with the other. We endure a few hours there before retiring to the open-air bar and planning the evening’s barbecuing and drinking.

The following day we head to a less well-known beach on the South side of the island. Immediately I feel like I’ve found what I came for. The beach is a spacious expanse of white sand and the surf is choppy and inviting. We’re by no means the only ones there but the claustrophobia of the previous day is definitely eased. We can spread out, play Frisbee, hurl ourselves full-force at the waves and just dose on blankets. About a mile back inland along the Hummock Pond Road we find another gem – the Cisco Brewery, a cobbled yard surrounded on three sides by bar-shacks selling locally brewed ales (Lady Grey is a popular one but Whale’s Tale is my personal favorite) and vodka. A three piece blues band are playing “Better Days” and the local variant of the pub game of Shut the Box (imaginatively named “Nantucket Shut the Box”) is doing the rounds among the customers – a simple one player dice game that involves wooden tiles mounted on hinges in a tray with letters that spell out NANTUCKET. It would be easy to spend hours leaning against the barrels, sinking some brews and people watching, but it’s a Sunday and the place closes at 5pm.

Back at the farm, some of the chickens have escaped the coop and are awkwardly clucking around the wrong side of their perimeter fence trying to get back in. Among the conventional looking hens there is one proud bird with an unusual crest and feathers around her feet that look like flairs. The whole ensemble reminds me of Elton John. I’m told that, when you buy a batch of eggs to breed chickens, they throw in a wild card for good measure – an unidentified changeling egg that could hatch into any breed. After an entertaining half-hour chase, we manage to throw the last escapee back over the fence, and a few of us take a look around the grounds. There are plots of ripening pumpkins, makeshift greenhouses where bell peppers are cultivated, white artificial beehives like out of place pieces of furniture and the decaying hulk of a fishing boat. Our friend tells us that most of the young university-age interns that enrolled with her in the work placement scheme for the summer drop out after a short time. These wild-eyed but inexperienced idealists, enticed by a life on the land, arrive expecting to learn about soil acidity, crop rotation and organic fertilizers, but the low pay and the monotony eventually wear down their resolve.

We decide to eat dinner at a place offering the local dish, lobster. The animals are priced according to weight and we order them broiled with sweet potato fries and sickly sweet butter sauce. I’m told that there is an order to eating New England lobster. That the claws should be broken off, cracked open and eaten first, and only then should one twist off the tail and slide out the main slab of meat. I’m suspicious of the yellowish-green goo – one should always be suspicious of yellowish green goo, that’s my philosophy – but this goo is apparently known as “tomalley”, digestive organs of the poor crustacean, and is a delicacy to some (unlike the “mustard” that one finds in Maryland crab, which, I’m informed, is actually shit). After that, it’s a question of scrabbling and poking around in the tail flippers and legs for the last meager morsels.

On our last night in Nantucket, we sit around drinking whisky until 1am when it starts to rain. We retreat to the tents and the rain gets worse, the storm clouds circle in bringing the thunder and lightning exhilaratingly close. After a few short hours of fitful sleep and lashing rain, the tents start to leak and the bedding to get soaked. Defeated, we abandon the tents, running to take shelter in the barn and laying our damp blankets down among the sawdust and feathers. Through the porridge-thick clouds and pounding rain, dawn is breaking. I contemplate the full day’s journey ahead back to DC via Boston as I try to snatch an hour’s sleep.

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