Ever since we arrived in Massachusetts, Michael has been itching to be on the water. It is understandable. Water and boats are everywhere we go. Well, almost everywhere. He announced to me yesterday that we were taking the fast Hi-Line Ferry to Nantucket today, Monday.
So here I am, early in the morning, getting ready to depart, as if it were a work day, not a fun day. The 38 minute trip to Hyannis flies by without a hitch; no traffic snarl anywhere.
And Hyannis is apparently ready for us, and everyone like us. There are signs along the way leading us to the ferry. When we arrive at the terminal there are men in bright green jackets flagging us down, telling us were to purchase tickets for parking, where to park and how to get there. They are nothing, if not efficient.
The Ferry to Nantucket
Parked, and now at the ticket window, Michael purchases two round-trip tickets for $77 each for the fast ferry which will only take an hour. They are boarding NOW; perfect timing on our part. Actually, it is planned perfect timing on Michael’s part.
As we board, we overhear the ticket taker say that there are less than 100 people on board. The seating inside the three deck ferry, both inside and out, looks like the vessel can accommodate hundreds more. We settle in for the duration.
When we are fifteen minutes out from Nantucket, Michael can no longer stand being inside and heads for the upstairs deck. Within five minutes he is back, urging me skyward; telling me there is seating out of the wind, and a heater to keep me warm. I follow him up the broad stairway.
In Nantucket
We dock in the mist on a cloudy, cool morning and follow the crowds as they tumble forward, lured by an invisible Pied Piper. Many individuals walk in the middle of the pedestrian-only street. Michael and I keep to the red brick sidewalk.
Pictures of homes for sale are taped to plate glass windows in several real estate agencies. They stop us in our tracks. We peruse the $9,000,000 properties, working our way up to the $28,000,000 estate that is for sale. Someone entering the office tells us, “Don’t pay attention to the prices—we have rock bottom discounts.” I wonder if they have a penny on a dollar rock bottom pricing. Or less.
We walk on. I have window box envy and stop often to take pictures. Each one I see is different, speaks of autumn, and is beautiful.
The town shops end and stately old homes take the place of the tony business section. The road is still cobbled, and strewn with so many fallen leaves, that the stones barely show up beneath them.
Eventually we come to a Y in the road, and several side roads. There are choices to make and I ask Michael if he is still going in the direction of the oldest house on the island. He is non-committal. But I love a destination, so I key it in to Google Maps, and we follow the dotted blue line for walking.
Following our Noses and Google Maps
Not another tourist in sight, we traverse the road less taken. Window boxes still abound. Michael remarks on the variety of names people give their homes. My favorite is Baggy Wrinkle.
We pass by a wonderful old house where the owner has shrunk wrapped his boat for the winter. The boat sits all by itself under a leafy arbor, looking like a strange white ghost, out of sight from the owners but no one else. It is a Nantucket winter sculpture.
When finally we reach the Oldest House in Nantucket (located on Sunset Hill, built in 1686 as a wedding present for a young Nantucket couple) Michael is not interested in touring the home. We have been wandering around the back streets of Nantucket for an hour and a half. He wants to find lunch and a soft place to sit.
As we wander down the hill back toward town, I remind him, it is his day. His choice. I am not going to say a word. He follows his nose. Literally. He smells food. The way Michael selects a restaurant is quite scientific. He walks into the first restaurant he comes to on his side of the street and opens the door.
Brotherhood of Thieves
The Brotherhood of Thieves, a bar & ordinary (a.k.a. pub), takes its name from the title of an 1844 pamphlet written in Nantucket by Stephen S. Foster, which vigorously attacked those who continued to support the institution of slavery. Apparently diversity and strong opinion have always found a tolerant home on the island. According to the restaurant, the ideas of rugged individualism, personal liberty, and the fostering of eccentricity still exist on Nantucket and continue to thrive. The name, The Brotherhood of Thieves, is an attempt to honor these Nantucket traditions and ideals.
Kind of like, Keep Austin Weird? Honestly, individualism, personal liberty and eccentricity seem to exist everywhere we sit and stay for a while and live. Thank goodness.
Lunch
At any rate the restaurant is cute and dark and very pub-like. Our waitress is helpful and we are starved. I inform Michael my intentions are to be here for a while, resting, relaxing, sampling the fare. (I know it’s his day, but…)
We start with French Onion Soup, and it is delightfully decadent. My love affair with this soup is always the deep dark rich broth—I can live without the cheese and bread—but the broth, it has to be right. This one is.
I want dessert so I forgo eating all of the bread and melted cheese and offer it to Michael. He can’t believe he is so lucky.
The mussels I order are very good, and the broth is good but definitely not the equal in flavor to the broth I had at Plimoth Plantation a little over a week ago. I am a tad disappointed.
Shatter
I ask the waitress to please not bring my dessert until I can finish my wine—which I like very much. It is an old vine grenache, a grape which doesn’t pass my lips too often unless it is in the form of a GSM wine blend. My server tells me Joel Gott is the vintner and it comes from a vineyard in France.
I know about Joel Gott but I have never heard of his French connection, I still don’t fully understand it, but when she brings me the bottle to photograph—there it is. A Californian in France. I feel this involves further investigation. Could he be following Orin Swift’s lead?
Dessert
The wine finished, the information stored, coffee and dessert is set before me. I tell Michael I should be French. I really do like these long leisurely lunches of eating and drinking. He just looks at me—mentally shaking his head.
Dessert is an apple crisp. Something Michael does not care for — apples in any form — don’t ask me why. I can’t understand it; it is un-American. This dessert is more apple than crisp with a healthy dose of vanilla ice cream on top. Michael eats more than his share of ice cream and I finish off the apples.
Nantucket Whaling Museum
During lunch we overhear a conversation about the whaling museum. Our server tells the group at the next table that they have to go, and tells them why. In all honesty another whaling museum was not on our list of things to see, but Nantucket is where it all started in the US, and our eavesdropping has convinced us to point our toes in that direction.
We step up to the counter to purchase our tickets and are told that due to circumstances we get in free today. We are handed a schedule of special talks and films for the day and told if we hurry we will be on time for one that starts right about NOW.
The Essex
We slip into two empty seats, and for thirty minutes I am spellbound by the storyteller and her tale. Of course, Michael knows of the Essex, but not me. The story begins with a teenaged boy living in Nantucket, and his mother, who recently lost her husband on a whaling expedition. Her teenage son wants to go to sea. She says, “No.”
Our narrator brings the very human element to this story and tells it well. It is a seafaring adventure that begins with mishap, triumphs, and ultimately ends in a ship shattered by a whale almost equal to its size. It is like the whale finally said, “Enough!” deciding to kill the source of his torment. And really this is where the story begins. And depending on what role you played in this true story, the end was either tragic or happy.
We stay for a short film but all I can really think of is the story I just heard and the human tragedy involved. Men whose ages ranged from the captain’s 29 years, to the cabin boy who was the youngest at 14, had their lives turned upside down, or ended, because of the giant whales erratic behavior. Most of the crew on board were without experience on a whaling ship; less than half of them surviving to return to Nantucket. The mother we met at the beginning of the story lost her son. He was a sacrificial lamb, who willingly went to the slaughter.
I can’t shake the story no matter how hard I try. The following account from the Encyclopedia Britannica doesn’t have the heart of the storyteller’s tale, but it does have the facts.
The Museum
After we leave the small theater area, and I see the building and its collections before me, I am finally able to focus on something other than the Essex. This museum is so different than the others we have seen. There is no glitz. No glitter. It is lovely in its simplicity. It humanizes the face of the whaling industry.
Catching a Whale
Standing in a loft area, we hear a woman’s voice. Looking down, we see it is another docent giving a talk. Another story teller. She brings to life, with the help of a film above her head and props from a small whaling boat beside her, what it is like to be one of the six men in a small boat whose job it is to kill a giant whale and finally, if successful, to row for a possible five hours in order to bring it back to the large whaling ship for processing. The fear. The determination. The stink. The slime. The smoke. The back breaking labor. This museum brings us full circle to understanding what whaling was all about.
To the Mainland!
By the time we board the ferry that will take us back to the mainland, we are foot sore and bone weary. It will be good to close my eyes for an hour. We just did what I hate doing—rushing through a place that should be savored slowly. Preferably in the summertime, unfortunately when it is beyond affordable for the ordinary individual. We were warned beforehand—be prepared for sticker shock unless you are in the .5% income level of the top echelon. That is not us. I guess I should be satisfied with only a taste of the ice cream cone.
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