The Center of the World's Stage

After some truly miserable weather earlier in the week, the sun has reappeared and the prevailing wind has gone back to the southwest.  There are even parking spaces in town.  The water has cooled, and the fish are back.  All's right with the world, at least for those fortunate enough to find themselves vacationing on Nantucket at the end of the summer. But this has tested my self-discipline over the past few days, for I needed to get some work done, specifically, some historical research about German submarine attacks on allied shipping near Nantucket during the First World War.

You see, one day early in October, 1916, a German U-boat sunk six ships a short distance from the Nantucket lightship moored 43 miles southeast of the island.  Afterwards, there was some conjecture that the Germans had established a submarine base in the shoals and sand banks just south of the island, an ideal place for a "mother" ship of light draft to bring out fuel and supplies.  That unproven proposition is the basis of a new book I am writing with the tentative title, "Dead In The Water."

As a result, for the past few days, I have found myself not on the beach, but settled in at the Nantucket Historical Society Research Library, where I spent hours looking at microfilm of the 1916 edition of the Nantucket weekly newspaper, "The Inquirer and Mirror," which has been the island's newspaper since 1821.  I had no difficulty finding what I needed; however, while I tried to focus on the U-boat attacks, I was distracted by many other items in the Nantucket paper.  One of the big stories, with extensive coverage of all the testimony, was a two-week trial in New Bedford, where a jury sustained the validity of one Horace Starbuck's will and found that Mr. Starbuck of Nantucket was of sound mind and was not influenced by his niece, Florence Hill, who received the bulk of his estate.  Other items of interest to me included the news that during the summer of that year this island finally was connected by an underwater telephone cable to the mainland, and that, while mail boats ran regularly back and forth to Woods Hole, a proposed "aerial mail service" for Nantucket was set back a year because aviators did not submit bids in response to U.S. Postal Service advertisements.

The United States had not yet entered the war in Europe, and in 1916 that global conflict received little coverage in the local newspaper other than in the aftermath of the German submarine activity offshore, which made Nantucket, according to the paper's headline, "The Center of the World's Stage." Indeed, The Starbuck trial received much more coverage that the war in Europe, and a local writer for the paper noted that there would have been more concern about the German attacks on shipping, if the vessels involved had been carrying laths and shingles, valued items on this island.  But, certainly, world events never have been the focus for a weekly local paper like the "Inky Mirror," as it is called, Nantucket's "newspaper of record" now for 190 years, and the paper's coverage of the war in 1916 was such that in a column called "Newsy Bits" on page three, I found the following item which I have quoted in its entirety: "The glorious British army has again extricated itself from danger by surrendering to the Turks."

Of course, the world war would come again to Nantucket; however, except for the German U-boat attacks, it still seemed very far away in 1916, when this island was much more isolated than it is today.  But enough said; it's time to go fishing. 

Nantucket Twenties

Yes, August is rapidly coming to a close, and it's time for another posting.  Past time, really. But I have little to report. The fish have been few, the seals, many, and the weather, beautiful as ever, at least until this morning.  It's a gloomy Sunday here, and as I sit here staring at my computer screen one item comes to mind that I have failed to note.  This summer I have encountered ATMs on this charmed island that dispense fifty dollar bills in place of twenties.  I was surprised the first time this happened, but the rationale  for this was immediately obvious to me; everything just costs more here.  Indeed, it's fair to say that a mainland fifty goes only as far as a twenty on Nantucket.  Here, on this magical isle, a fifty is the new twenty; a Ulysses S. Grant greenback is only worth an Andrew Jackson.

Skunked

Friday morning I went fishing early out at the Bonito Bar and got skunked.  My friend, Rick Blair, who was fishing with me, had an early hookup with a bluefish, but that was it for the day.  I had several follows and saw a few splashes from interested bluefish but no takes, nada, zip, nothing for me on the scoreboard.  It certainly was good to be out on the water, on a clear, crisp, beautiful day, but the fly fishing was tough.  We did not see much bait in the water at all, and casting was difficult with a very strong wind blowing from the east and northeast against the incoming tide.  Following the birds and fishing the rips along the way, we went up to Tuckernuck and Muskeget, too, but we had no luck for four hours on the water.  Windblown and tired, I went home and told myself that I should be posting a blog about something else other than fishing, about Safe On Third, perhaps, because my book, after all,  is what started this exercise.

And, as for my book, I do have something I have wanted to say about a new work of non-fiction that came out recently, not a work about fly fishing in salt water, but a book entitled Twilight at the World of Tomorrow: Genius, Madness, Murder, and the 1939 World's Fair on the Brink of War, by James Mauro.  Mauro's book is a narative history of the the World's Fair of 1939-40, and I am eager to read this book because it describes in detail an event that is dramatized in Chapter 15 of Safe On Third,  the explosion of a time-bomb at the World's Fair on July 4th, 1940.  The bomb was found in the British Pavilion and two courageous New York City bomb squad detectives, Joe Lynch and Freddy Socha, were tragically killed when they tried to defuse it.

Mauro shows in his book how dangerous New York City was in the pre-war days described in Safe On Third, when there were many bomb treats and explosions, and a comparison with the post 9/11 world that we live in now immediately comes to mind, although I must admit that I wrote Chapter 15 long before the events of September 9th, 2001.

Nantucket Fishin'

Sunday was beautiful here on Nantucket, and I was out fishing at an early hour.  Actually, foraging would be a better word, for I was out at seven in the morning looking for food at the local markets.  On Nantucket this is always a challenge for someone spoiled by the organic food and fresh produce that is taken for granted in Northern California.  On Sunday it was even more of a challenge because we have arrived at the busiest time of the summer here, and the island's actual population of just over 11,000 has probably doubled or tripled with August visitors, who were all out shopping with me.

My first stop was the local Stop and Shop supermarket, open 24 hours, where many other people had gotten up early to beat the rush. Saturday is the change over day for many renters on island, and it was apparent that all of them had gotten up early on Sunday to go marketing. The place was packed, and  I cast about in dangerous shoals, trying to make my way down narrow, crowded aisles while dodging around the many shopping carts, particularly those with a red plastic truck cab attached to the front to accommodate younger children, who are packed inside and pushed around the market while their parents shop and dump their catches in the wire cart baskets above their offspring.

It is quite painful to be hit in the shins or ankle by one of these red cabs, and they are difficult to avoid. Still, undaunted, I waded into the fray, circumnavigating treacherous waters with my market list in hand. Unfortunately, everything on my list always seems to sell out quite quickly here, particularly in August.  On Sunday half the items I wanted already were gone, and I left the market to forage elsewhere, having more luck at a place called Moor's End Farm and at a butcher shop know as "Cowboys."

Of course, Cowboys did not have the chicken thighs I wanted.  I settled for breasts and swapped some real fishing stories with the butcher, who was eager to tell me about his recent efforts at surfcasting and the Striped Bass he had caught several evenings earlier, his first keeper of the season.

"Yeah, the bass are still around,” he said.  "I was down on the South Shore. By the golf course.  You know, Miacomet, and eighteen pounds it was.  Eighteen pounds.  Caught it on a Pearl Bomber, with a teaser around eight o'clock.  Yeah, no Slug-gos for me, always a good, old Bomber with a teaser."

He added that he can't fish in the middle of the night anymore, just until after sunset, until eight or nine in the evening.  I can't seem to fish late any more, either, I told him.  But I did get up the next day at five to fish the rising tide, not at the Stop and Shop, but at the Bonito Bar, off Madaket.  I had no luck with the Bonito; however, I did catch some Bluefish on the fly further out with my dear wife, good sport that she is, who had agreed to come with me.  (I always catch fish when my wife fishes, too.)  Maybe, when the tide is right, I'll head down to the South Shore, by the golf course, at dusk, and try a Pearl Bomber.  If I'm lucky, I might get my wife to join me.

Front-Wheel Drive

O.K.  I get it.  If you're going to start a blog, you have to keep blogging, even when you're on vacation.  The problem is that the weather on Nantucket has been unusually good.  I need a bad day and a downpour to get me back in front of my computer for more than a check of my email, fishing reports, the tide charts, and the detailed seven-day weather forecast for "Nantucket County, MA," provided by the National Weather Service.  But this morning it has rained already, and the chances are it will rain again.  And, yes, as I always do, I also have checked the radar images at the National Weather Service website.  You see, like so many others here on island, I regularly watch the composite reflectivity loop from Boston radar, and as I sit here now gazing at the brightly colored rain clouds moving towards the island, I find myself almost mesmerized.  Although most of rain appears to be passing north of Nantucket,  I am determined to sit here and blog, no matter what the weather.

But where to begin?  A brief fishing report is in order.  Both off shore and on, the Bonito fishing has been slow.  A trip to Great Point produced a few blue fish, but it is disappointing, indeed, to find yourself with only the large head of a fish after a large seal has devoured the body of your catch.  Today, I had planned to go back to the Bonito Bar with a friend to fish the rising tide at midday, but our trip has been cancelled because of the weather. We have rescheduled for Monday morning at 6:oo am, and I am afraid that leaves me with no excuse as to posting a blog today.

With so much time on my hands and such lousy weather, I can sit here and share an experience I had a few days ago, when I drove down to the South Shore to meet my family at the beach.  It was another bright, sunny day on this beautiful island, all blue sky with no clouds, and that reminds me of something I heard the wonderful comedian, Lewis Black, say at the Nantucket Comedy Festival last weekend.  Commenting on the beauty of this place and using the "F" word for appropriate emphasis, he said he did not understand how anyone could get anything done here or would even try.   Maybe that's my problem.

But back to my story.   My family had gone to the beach earlier in the day.  They had driven there in our Toyota Highlander, a sturdy car with four-wheel drive, equipped with a tow rope and shovel, etc.   They were not driving on the beach but on unpaved dirt roads, sandy, heavily rutted paths that lead down to the South Shore beaches in the Madequecham Valley. These roads are bumpy but manageable in almost any vehicle.

I had not gone with my family because I had errands to do in town, but the plan was that I would join them afterwards. I was left with my son's car, a low-slung Acura sedan, and after completing my errands I headed directly to the beach.  Leaving the State highway, aka the "Milestone Road," I headed south on an unpaved road called Russell's Way. I was in a hurry, eager to join my family for lunch, and I made good time on the winding, dusty dirt roads that led down to the beach.  However, when I finally turned off onto the trail leading to the beach parking area, I suddenly found myself in deep sand.  I was only 500 yards from the cars parked above the beach, but I had gone around a blind corner too quickly and the result was that my front wheels were stuck in the sand.  I got out of the car to appraise the situation and saw that my back wheels were still on firm ground.   No problem, I thought.  I got back in the car and put it in reverse.  Then I stepped on the gas and buried the car deeper in the sand.  The car would not budge, and I suddenly realized that I had made a terribly stupid mistake, for I had forgotten that my son's car has front-wheel drive.

I can't remember where, but I recall reading somewhere that front-wheel drive is like bad sex.  That thought came back to me then,  and I felt quite embarrassed as I sat there in my son's car.  I got out and call him on my cell phone, asking him to drive down to help me with the Highlander.  Then, while I stood there, waiting for him, next to his Acura, several cars passed and the occupants offered to help me, but I waved them on. I knew that with my son's help we could get the car out quickly, but I was, as I say, embarrassed.

I have been coming here long enough and driven enough on the sand to know better.   The last time I got stuck was out at Great Point when the four-wheel drive in an old Ford Explorer gave out.  With help from a friendly fisherman, I was pulled back out of deep sand and then drove in reverse back to Wauwinet and terra firma, staying in the deep tire tracks in the sand all the way back.   I've also been stuck in a my old Jeep Cherokee out on Coatue in very deep sand when I was fishing, but I always was able to dig myself out.

Never had I been stuck in a black sedan on a dirt path, only a short distance from a beach parking area.

Well, my son arrived, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.  But he was eager to help me, and after letting a little air out of the tires, quickly digging out the front end of the car, and hooking up the tow rope, we managed to get the car out of the sand in only a few minutes. Then, carefully avoiding any deep sand, I drove around to a different trail leading to the beach and joined my family with my tail between my legs.

But there is more to this story than a humility lesson for me.  Later in the day, I drove my son's car into town to get it washed and remove some of the sand from the undercarriage.   I also put more air in the tires, and as I reached for the hose at the air pump, a man pulled up next to me in a big red Suburban, covered with dust, and rigged out with rod holders and coolers.  He got out and shook his head.  "Wow!" he said to me.  "You drive that car on the beach?  That's incredible."

"Only on the South Shore,"  I replied, nodding as I spoke.  "Only on the South Shore."