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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Recreation / Sports / Travel
- Published: 03/05/2022
Exploring Cape Cod
Born 1954, M, from Cocoa Beach/FL, United StatesFor me, nighttime airplane landings were partly fascinating and partly creepy. A captain’s update, along with a change in the engine’s sound, was my first notice to wake up. I looked out my window at a view from above. The pinpricks of light were more fascinating than watching Google Earth. A window’s cold touch on my face reminded me of the plane’s altitude, which broke my standard for staying alive. That survival policy was not to go higher than I wanted to fall, especially on ladders, high diving boards, looking over cliffs, and motorcycles. Numerous injuries and scars from a school of stubbornness had led to this policy. Being in an airplane was different, but they have also been known to fall to earth. That stayed way back in my mind when I flew. First, a few lone lights appeared below. Then I tracked a highway approaching Hartford, Connecticut. More road lights appeared, then clusters of lights that swelled to a continuous large city. Having spent time in Hartford, I recognized some of the brighter strings of lights wandering through town. The plane and engine pitch dropped lower. Now I saw individual cars on highways, like glowing ants marching on a yellow ribbon. As we descended, the earth below moved faster. Houses flew by. Red runway lights appeared ahead. I heard wing flaps drop as we slowed. The most dangerous time approached. Would this be a smooth or rough landing?
I hated rough landings. My worst was a Continental flight 20 years ago when ceiling panels dropped on my head, then swung for quite a while on hundreds of wires above. I will never fly Continental again.
We landed smoothly. I exhaled. My beautiful, blond, and curvaceous wife, Annie, and I finished the first leg of our trip. We grabbed our luggage and rented a car to drive onward to a Cape Cod summer vacation. We were going as far as Willimantic tonight, about halfway across Connecticut. When we traveled by car, I drove while Annie navigated. That plan became essential when we left the bright lights of Hartford behind and turned onto a two-lane highway entering the darkness of Connecticut’s hills. Hills covered with thick trees and large, sharp rocks blocking most lights of the night. Recent paving left the road a spooky pitch-black, with only a center yellow stripe showing a direction to steer. At least I didn’t have far to fall if I slipped off the edge.
“I’m glad you know where you are going,” I said. “These winding roads all look the same to me.”
“Yes, I grew up near here. I know these roads like the back of my hand.”
“Maybe, but your hand hasn’t been here for a long time.”
“You just drive, and I’ll look at the map.”
No need to start out fussing. I zipped my mouth. Ten o’clock at night, facing a drive halfway across the state after flying in from Florida, had me dragging. I turned on the radio and dialed in a jazz station.
Twenty minutes into a Diane Krall album, an emergency alert shook me from my zone.
“This is an alert from the Connecticut State Police. This is not a drill. There has been a jailbreak at New York’s Clinton Correctional Facility. Two inmates escaped this morning and are still on the loose. They were both described as middle-aged, short, white men with bald heads covered in tattoos. These escapees could be anywhere between Canada and New York. They were last seen wearing orange prison jumpsuits. If you see someone suspicious, call your local police. If you are in a house in the country, turn your outside lights on. Lock your doors and windows and take steps to defend yourself if necessary. More alerts will be given as the situation develops.”
“Oh my God,” said Annie. “Don’t stop for anybody.”
“I thought there were a lot of police at the airport and patrolling through Hartford.”
“It sure is dark out here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep driving until we reach our hotel in Willimantic.”
“Keep that radio on in case there are more reports,” said Annie.
“Are you seeing those house lights on in the woods?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
I continued driving on full alert. A few minutes later, a pair of headlights appeared in my mirror. I flipped the mirror down to keep blinding lights out of my eyes. The lights slowly moved closer to us.
“What’s that car doing?” Annie asked nervously.
“Just hanging back there.”
The lights stayed ominously close to our tail for a few minutes, then red lights with a siren turned on.
“It’s a police car,” Annie said with relief.
“I wasn’t speeding,” I said in aggravation. “Why is he stopping me?”
“It’s okay. At least he’s not a convict.”
“Give me our rental papers.”
I waited, watching in my mirror, while the short-haired, square-shouldered Highway Patrol officer stepped out of his car, put on his straight-brimmed hat, and adjusted his belt. He cautiously approached my door while one hand stayed on his pistol. ‘I bet he is on the lookout for those escapees, I thought. He stopped at my back door and shined a flashlight into the car. I rolled down my window.
“Look back at him,” I told Annie.
“Why?” she asked as she turned her head toward the light.
“I want him to see there is a woman in here, not two men.”
That seemed to do the trick. The officer stepped up to my window and shined his light on my bald head.
“Hello, officer,” I said.
“Is this a rent car?”
“Yes, sir. We just landed at Hartford and are driving to Cape Cod on vacation.”
“License and insurance cards, please.”
Annie gave me the rental agreement. I handed over my papers and waited while he returned to his car.
“I bet he’s looking for those guys who broke out of jail,” Annie said with a perked-up voice.
“Fine, as long as he doesn’t give me a ticket.” I wanted to keep my driving record clean. I had not received a ticket in 16 years.
A few minutes passed until the officer returned.
“Is there a problem, officer?” I asked.
“No, no problem. You may have heard about that jailbreak.”
“Yes, sir, it’s all over the news. Have they caught those guys yet?”
“Not yet. Have you seen any suspicious men or cars?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, you can go. Don’t stop for anyone tonight. I’m sure you will be fine.”
“Yes, sir. I am not stopping, period.”
He turned and walked back to his car. The red lights turned off. I sighed in relief, put my car in gear, and slowly drove away on the dark road.
“I’ve never been stopped like that before,” I said.
“Me neither.” Annie paused. “I don’t like this creepy road. Tomorrow we only drive during the day.”
Half an hour later, lights from Willimantic appeared between craggy hills.
“I’m glad to be in the city,” Annie said.
“Me too.”
I pulled into our hotel in Willimantic. A local police car was parked by the office at the entrance. Two officers in the car watched us park and go inside to check-in.
Inside our room, Annie said, “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing those cops are outside. What a crazy night.”
“You got that right.”
We drove another hundred miles through Connecticut’s tall trees and massive rock formations the next day. When we reached Cape Cod, Massachusetts, the countryside gradually flattened to tan sand with scrubby pines and oaks. Provincetown lay at the northern tip of The Cape, a 50 mile long, hooked-shaped peninsula. Previously, we had spent a vacation in Provincetown. This week we would explore the southern end of Cape Cod. I drove to Falmouth, a small town on the Cape’s southern base. We checked into a hotel serving as a base of operations during our vacation.
After we settled into our room, Annie said, “We passed a seafood restaurant down the street. We are going back there to eat lobster rolls. I grew up on lobster rolls and haven’t had one for decades. Let’s go.”
She did not have to twist my arm to eat lobster. The restaurant was more of a roadside shack serving variations of lobster and fish. It reminded me of a hamburger fast food place.
Once inside, I asked Annie, “I’ve heard you talk about lobster rolls. What are they?”
“You don’t know?”
“Remember, I’m from Texas.”
“It’s basically a hot dog bun filled with buttered lobster meat. My mother used to also put mayonnaise on it.”
“That sounds great. I’ll order two of those with fries at the window.”
“Get me a beer, too,” Annie said.
She made a convert of me that afternoon. Fresh Maine lobster had a rich seafood flavor like nothing else. What I really liked about the rolls was lobster meat that someone else pulled from their shells and packed into freshly toasted bread. Annie continued receiving her fix by eating lobster rolls each day of our vacation.
After indulging in lobster, I drove southward a few miles through thick forests to Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute at the southern tip of Cape Cod. At the campus, I learned Woods Hole was a renowned world center for marine, biomedical, and environmental science. 49 Nobel Laureates had taught or attended this premier private university funded by a single charitable trust.
The next day, we strolled through picturesque Woods Hole Harbor, investigating northern fashions and cultures far different than where we lived in Florida. An exotic smell of saltwater and the sounds of commercial fishing boats rocking against piers cast their spell on me once again. I could not stay away from Mother Ocean for long.
We boarded a ferry boat for a forty-minute ride to Martha’s Vineyard. Rather than take our car to wander on a strange island, we left our car in Woods Hole. Our plan was to hire a taxi for a private tour of exciting areas. I avoided public bus excursions like the plague. I preferred to travel without tourists telling me about their grandchildren and stopping at bland restaurants. I negotiated a total day rate with a driver of a comfortable van.
After climbing into his car, the middle-aged driver with black hair over his ears asked, “Any place in particular you want to see?”
“Take us where those busses don’t go and make sure we go through Chappaquiddick.”
“My pleasure,” he responded. “Call me Mike.”
“We are Annie and Gordon,” replied my better half.
I lived in Cocoa Beach on a barrier island. I had become addicted to islands, so most of my vacations are to other islands along the East Coast or the Caribbean. Sandy beaches, the smell of salt air, and the sound of waves filled my soul with contentment. Being close to Mother Ocean had become an essential part of my being. After being on the mainland the last few days, I relished touring a new island while inhaling sea air.
Martha’s Vineyard was an island known for its unspoiled charm of 19 beaches. It had a population of 16,000 well-heeled residents, many of whom were seasonal occupants. With no chain motels, expensive rentals were found in private homes hidden in the woods and six small towns. Many Bostonians escaped to The Vineyard for peace and quiet not found in Beantown.
Mike started our tour by driving along the eastern shoreline on a two-lane road with white sea dunes on the left and white oak forests to the right. With a friendly Boston accent, he told us about the island and its history. The island was home to one of the earliest known deaf communities in the United States. A sign language, Martha’s Vineyard Sign Language, emerged there.
Halfway across the island, we traversed a bridge over an inlet. I thought it looked familiar.
“This is the most famous bridge on The Vineyard. You might recognize it from Jaws. They filmed a lot of the movie on this beach in front of us.”
“Oh, I remember. Boats went in and out of here,” Annie exclaimed. “I’ve seen that movie a hundred times. Sharks scare me to death.”
I laughed. “Mike, you should have seen her in The Bahamas. She was snorkeling, and a five-foot bull shark swam up behind her. Annie screamed and walked on water back to the boat. She hyperventilated for the next thirty minutes.”
“It wasn’t funny. There was nothing between Africa and me. You couldn’t have saved me. I hate sharks.”
Mike laughed, then pulled over for us to look at the bridge and reminisce. Then he turned inland to explore the island’s center, where estates on large tracts were set back hundreds of yards from the road.
“Who are some of the famous people that live here?” Annie asked.
“Well, some people live here full time, while others leave each winter. We have the Clintons and Obamas, Michael J. Fox, Jim Belushi, Oprah Winfrey, the Jackie Kennedy Onassis estate, Spike Lee, and Reese Witherspoon. Then there’s Mike Wallace, Walter Cronkite, many of the Kennedys, Carly Simon, James Taylor, and others.”
“Oh my,” Annie said as she perked up.
A few miles later, Mike said, “I’ll take you someplace special that I don’t show many people.”
I looked at Annie and winked.
He slowed to turn into a small gate with a faded Cemetery sign. Mike parked and helped us out the doors. We followed him to a single grave in maybe a 6,000 square foot plot fenced with wood rails. The graveyard was well mowed and kept. Mike pointed to a gravestone at the rear of the property. When I walked to the headstone, I stopped in unexpected awe. A two-foot-wide skull-and-crossbones embedded at its top gave an expected impression for Mr. Belushi. Beneath that, a carving read ‘Here Lies Buried The Body Of John Belushi January 12, 1949 March 5, 1982 I may be gone, but Rock and Roll lives on.’ In front of the stone lay small U.S. flags surrounded by beer cans and whiskey bottles on small, white stones. Annie walked up behind me and gasped.
“Those bottles and cans are left here every week by his fans,” Mike said. “Jim Belushi comes by here to clean them up regularly. At least John is remembered.”
“Yes,” I said. “He will not be forgotten.”
“I don’t remember much about him,” Annie confessed.
“He became famous on Saturday Night Live and made the Animal House and Blues Brothers movies. His wild man personality was infamous.”
“Didn’t he O.D.in Los Angeles?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mike replied. “That sad day ended an era.”
We contemplated in silence. I remembered crazy days of the seventies and others who lived hard and died young.
We continued our tour, driving across a sparsely populated twenty-mile-long island to Chappaquiddick Island at The Vineyard’s eastern tip. Mike took us over dirt roads to Dike Bridge, a ten-foot-wide wooden bridge with no nearby lights.
“In 1969, Ted Kennedy drove off that bridge, landing in the water one night,” Mike said. “Easy to do on a dark night after partying. A college intern, Mary Joe Kopechne, was also in his car. She drowned under suspicious circumstances. We now have rails on the bridge, but back then, it had no railing,”
“This created quite a scandal that ended any hope for Ted to run for president,” I noted.
Again, we sat in silence, thinking about what might have been.
Our tour ended in Oak Bluffs, a village built by Methodists in the 19th century. It is memorable for 318 tiny gingerbread houses with New England architecture. Each house had been painted in bright, pastel colors different than other houses around it. Complex icicle-shaped trim with contrasting colors adorned these homes, giving Oak Bluff a fairyland effect. To preserve the homes’ unique character, only owners could occupy them. No renting was allowed.
The next day we left Falmouth to visit Barnstable inside Cape Cod’s hook. We signed up for a tour on a ship to go whale watching. Just a few miles offshore, we spotted whales breaching the surface. Our captain slowed his boat to drift close to a pod of a dozen humpbacks feeding on krill, a small shrimp relative.
These fifty-foot creatures were distinctive with black backs, white stomachs, and long front fins. They surfaced just feet away from our ship, looking at us through fearless, four-inch eyes while exhaling foul air that caused us to push back from the ship’s railing. Their feeding patterns were quite remarkable. On cue, several whales dove in unison to circle hordes of krill in deep water. A few minutes later, krill swarmed to the surface in a tight ball maybe six feet in diameter. Next, our National Geographic moment occurred when the humpbacks swam straight up, breaking the surface, head-to-head encircling their meal. I looked inside a circle of wide-open mouths inhaling a doomed ball of thousands of crustaceans. The stunning sight took my breath away. We watched humpbacks feed and mothers protecting their calves for an hour, then turned back to port.
I noticed a deeply tanned fellow with his family sitting across from us on our ride back. He wore a maroon baseball hat and shirt. His wrinkled face seemed familiar, but I could not quite place him. A large, intricate National Championship ring jumped out at me when I looked at his ham-sized hand. I had not seen a ring like that before.
“Are you Jackie Sherrill?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nice to meet you, Coach. I’m Gordon England. I’m a Longhorn, but I won’t hold that against you.”
He was the Texas Aggie football coach for many years, including when I was in college in Austin. Longhorns were the Aggie’s fiercest rival. The Aggie colors were maroon and white.
He laughed. When we shook hands, his monstrous ring mashed my fingers.
“That’s a mighty fine ring you have there.”
“Thank you. I won that at Alabama with Bear Bryant coaching us.”
I inspected his magnificent ring again.
“You were a great coach. Are you out here on vacation?”
“Yes, I have my family with me. Those whales were something else, weren’t they?”
“They sure were, Coach.
We turned back to our families. I don’t know which was better. Seeing the humpbacks or meeting Coach Sherrill. There did not have to be a better. I had an extra-fine day.
Annie had been looking forward to visiting Hyannis Port, so that’s where we ended up on our last day of vacation. Her idol had always been John Kennedy, so we circled the six-acre waterfront estate halfway up Cape Cod’s hook. Josef Kennedy’s eleven-bedroom, white house built with New England architecture looked like a hotel fifteen feet above the ocean. Annie relived the Kennedy family history as we parked on a side road to play tourist watching for identifiable occupants. Alas, no people walked the yard for us.
We finished our vacation by going to the surprisingly small JFK Presidential Museum in Barnstable. Letters and photographs from his life and presidency were fascinating. While reading the historical documents interested me, a somber atmosphere put a damper on any happiness I might have otherwise experienced. We left in unexpected introspection. On our long ride back to the airport, we relived our joy and wonder of lobsters, whales, and whiskey bottles on a grave. Our vacation had been everything and more than I expected.
Exploring Cape Cod(Gordon England)
For me, nighttime airplane landings were partly fascinating and partly creepy. A captain’s update, along with a change in the engine’s sound, was my first notice to wake up. I looked out my window at a view from above. The pinpricks of light were more fascinating than watching Google Earth. A window’s cold touch on my face reminded me of the plane’s altitude, which broke my standard for staying alive. That survival policy was not to go higher than I wanted to fall, especially on ladders, high diving boards, looking over cliffs, and motorcycles. Numerous injuries and scars from a school of stubbornness had led to this policy. Being in an airplane was different, but they have also been known to fall to earth. That stayed way back in my mind when I flew. First, a few lone lights appeared below. Then I tracked a highway approaching Hartford, Connecticut. More road lights appeared, then clusters of lights that swelled to a continuous large city. Having spent time in Hartford, I recognized some of the brighter strings of lights wandering through town. The plane and engine pitch dropped lower. Now I saw individual cars on highways, like glowing ants marching on a yellow ribbon. As we descended, the earth below moved faster. Houses flew by. Red runway lights appeared ahead. I heard wing flaps drop as we slowed. The most dangerous time approached. Would this be a smooth or rough landing?
I hated rough landings. My worst was a Continental flight 20 years ago when ceiling panels dropped on my head, then swung for quite a while on hundreds of wires above. I will never fly Continental again.
We landed smoothly. I exhaled. My beautiful, blond, and curvaceous wife, Annie, and I finished the first leg of our trip. We grabbed our luggage and rented a car to drive onward to a Cape Cod summer vacation. We were going as far as Willimantic tonight, about halfway across Connecticut. When we traveled by car, I drove while Annie navigated. That plan became essential when we left the bright lights of Hartford behind and turned onto a two-lane highway entering the darkness of Connecticut’s hills. Hills covered with thick trees and large, sharp rocks blocking most lights of the night. Recent paving left the road a spooky pitch-black, with only a center yellow stripe showing a direction to steer. At least I didn’t have far to fall if I slipped off the edge.
“I’m glad you know where you are going,” I said. “These winding roads all look the same to me.”
“Yes, I grew up near here. I know these roads like the back of my hand.”
“Maybe, but your hand hasn’t been here for a long time.”
“You just drive, and I’ll look at the map.”
No need to start out fussing. I zipped my mouth. Ten o’clock at night, facing a drive halfway across the state after flying in from Florida, had me dragging. I turned on the radio and dialed in a jazz station.
Twenty minutes into a Diane Krall album, an emergency alert shook me from my zone.
“This is an alert from the Connecticut State Police. This is not a drill. There has been a jailbreak at New York’s Clinton Correctional Facility. Two inmates escaped this morning and are still on the loose. They were both described as middle-aged, short, white men with bald heads covered in tattoos. These escapees could be anywhere between Canada and New York. They were last seen wearing orange prison jumpsuits. If you see someone suspicious, call your local police. If you are in a house in the country, turn your outside lights on. Lock your doors and windows and take steps to defend yourself if necessary. More alerts will be given as the situation develops.”
“Oh my God,” said Annie. “Don’t stop for anybody.”
“I thought there were a lot of police at the airport and patrolling through Hartford.”
“It sure is dark out here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep driving until we reach our hotel in Willimantic.”
“Keep that radio on in case there are more reports,” said Annie.
“Are you seeing those house lights on in the woods?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
I continued driving on full alert. A few minutes later, a pair of headlights appeared in my mirror. I flipped the mirror down to keep blinding lights out of my eyes. The lights slowly moved closer to us.
“What’s that car doing?” Annie asked nervously.
“Just hanging back there.”
The lights stayed ominously close to our tail for a few minutes, then red lights with a siren turned on.
“It’s a police car,” Annie said with relief.
“I wasn’t speeding,” I said in aggravation. “Why is he stopping me?”
“It’s okay. At least he’s not a convict.”
“Give me our rental papers.”
I waited, watching in my mirror, while the short-haired, square-shouldered Highway Patrol officer stepped out of his car, put on his straight-brimmed hat, and adjusted his belt. He cautiously approached my door while one hand stayed on his pistol. ‘I bet he is on the lookout for those escapees, I thought. He stopped at my back door and shined a flashlight into the car. I rolled down my window.
“Look back at him,” I told Annie.
“Why?” she asked as she turned her head toward the light.
“I want him to see there is a woman in here, not two men.”
That seemed to do the trick. The officer stepped up to my window and shined his light on my bald head.
“Hello, officer,” I said.
“Is this a rent car?”
“Yes, sir. We just landed at Hartford and are driving to Cape Cod on vacation.”
“License and insurance cards, please.”
Annie gave me the rental agreement. I handed over my papers and waited while he returned to his car.
“I bet he’s looking for those guys who broke out of jail,” Annie said with a perked-up voice.
“Fine, as long as he doesn’t give me a ticket.” I wanted to keep my driving record clean. I had not received a ticket in 16 years.
A few minutes passed until the officer returned.
“Is there a problem, officer?” I asked.
“No, no problem. You may have heard about that jailbreak.”
“Yes, sir, it’s all over the news. Have they caught those guys yet?”
“Not yet. Have you seen any suspicious men or cars?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, you can go. Don’t stop for anyone tonight. I’m sure you will be fine.”
“Yes, sir. I am not stopping, period.”
He turned and walked back to his car. The red lights turned off. I sighed in relief, put my car in gear, and slowly drove away on the dark road.
“I’ve never been stopped like that before,” I said.
“Me neither.” Annie paused. “I don’t like this creepy road. Tomorrow we only drive during the day.”
Half an hour later, lights from Willimantic appeared between craggy hills.
“I’m glad to be in the city,” Annie said.
“Me too.”
I pulled into our hotel in Willimantic. A local police car was parked by the office at the entrance. Two officers in the car watched us park and go inside to check-in.
Inside our room, Annie said, “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing those cops are outside. What a crazy night.”
“You got that right.”
We drove another hundred miles through Connecticut’s tall trees and massive rock formations the next day. When we reached Cape Cod, Massachusetts, the countryside gradually flattened to tan sand with scrubby pines and oaks. Provincetown lay at the northern tip of The Cape, a 50 mile long, hooked-shaped peninsula. Previously, we had spent a vacation in Provincetown. This week we would explore the southern end of Cape Cod. I drove to Falmouth, a small town on the Cape’s southern base. We checked into a hotel serving as a base of operations during our vacation.
After we settled into our room, Annie said, “We passed a seafood restaurant down the street. We are going back there to eat lobster rolls. I grew up on lobster rolls and haven’t had one for decades. Let’s go.”
She did not have to twist my arm to eat lobster. The restaurant was more of a roadside shack serving variations of lobster and fish. It reminded me of a hamburger fast food place.
Once inside, I asked Annie, “I’ve heard you talk about lobster rolls. What are they?”
“You don’t know?”
“Remember, I’m from Texas.”
“It’s basically a hot dog bun filled with buttered lobster meat. My mother used to also put mayonnaise on it.”
“That sounds great. I’ll order two of those with fries at the window.”
“Get me a beer, too,” Annie said.
She made a convert of me that afternoon. Fresh Maine lobster had a rich seafood flavor like nothing else. What I really liked about the rolls was lobster meat that someone else pulled from their shells and packed into freshly toasted bread. Annie continued receiving her fix by eating lobster rolls each day of our vacation.
After indulging in lobster, I drove southward a few miles through thick forests to Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute at the southern tip of Cape Cod. At the campus, I learned Woods Hole was a renowned world center for marine, biomedical, and environmental science. 49 Nobel Laureates had taught or attended this premier private university funded by a single charitable trust.
The next day, we strolled through picturesque Woods Hole Harbor, investigating northern fashions and cultures far different than where we lived in Florida. An exotic smell of saltwater and the sounds of commercial fishing boats rocking against piers cast their spell on me once again. I could not stay away from Mother Ocean for long.
We boarded a ferry boat for a forty-minute ride to Martha’s Vineyard. Rather than take our car to wander on a strange island, we left our car in Woods Hole. Our plan was to hire a taxi for a private tour of exciting areas. I avoided public bus excursions like the plague. I preferred to travel without tourists telling me about their grandchildren and stopping at bland restaurants. I negotiated a total day rate with a driver of a comfortable van.
After climbing into his car, the middle-aged driver with black hair over his ears asked, “Any place in particular you want to see?”
“Take us where those busses don’t go and make sure we go through Chappaquiddick.”
“My pleasure,” he responded. “Call me Mike.”
“We are Annie and Gordon,” replied my better half.
I lived in Cocoa Beach on a barrier island. I had become addicted to islands, so most of my vacations are to other islands along the East Coast or the Caribbean. Sandy beaches, the smell of salt air, and the sound of waves filled my soul with contentment. Being close to Mother Ocean had become an essential part of my being. After being on the mainland the last few days, I relished touring a new island while inhaling sea air.
Martha’s Vineyard was an island known for its unspoiled charm of 19 beaches. It had a population of 16,000 well-heeled residents, many of whom were seasonal occupants. With no chain motels, expensive rentals were found in private homes hidden in the woods and six small towns. Many Bostonians escaped to The Vineyard for peace and quiet not found in Beantown.
Mike started our tour by driving along the eastern shoreline on a two-lane road with white sea dunes on the left and white oak forests to the right. With a friendly Boston accent, he told us about the island and its history. The island was home to one of the earliest known deaf communities in the United States. A sign language, Martha’s Vineyard Sign Language, emerged there.
Halfway across the island, we traversed a bridge over an inlet. I thought it looked familiar.
“This is the most famous bridge on The Vineyard. You might recognize it from Jaws. They filmed a lot of the movie on this beach in front of us.”
“Oh, I remember. Boats went in and out of here,” Annie exclaimed. “I’ve seen that movie a hundred times. Sharks scare me to death.”
I laughed. “Mike, you should have seen her in The Bahamas. She was snorkeling, and a five-foot bull shark swam up behind her. Annie screamed and walked on water back to the boat. She hyperventilated for the next thirty minutes.”
“It wasn’t funny. There was nothing between Africa and me. You couldn’t have saved me. I hate sharks.”
Mike laughed, then pulled over for us to look at the bridge and reminisce. Then he turned inland to explore the island’s center, where estates on large tracts were set back hundreds of yards from the road.
“Who are some of the famous people that live here?” Annie asked.
“Well, some people live here full time, while others leave each winter. We have the Clintons and Obamas, Michael J. Fox, Jim Belushi, Oprah Winfrey, the Jackie Kennedy Onassis estate, Spike Lee, and Reese Witherspoon. Then there’s Mike Wallace, Walter Cronkite, many of the Kennedys, Carly Simon, James Taylor, and others.”
“Oh my,” Annie said as she perked up.
A few miles later, Mike said, “I’ll take you someplace special that I don’t show many people.”
I looked at Annie and winked.
He slowed to turn into a small gate with a faded Cemetery sign. Mike parked and helped us out the doors. We followed him to a single grave in maybe a 6,000 square foot plot fenced with wood rails. The graveyard was well mowed and kept. Mike pointed to a gravestone at the rear of the property. When I walked to the headstone, I stopped in unexpected awe. A two-foot-wide skull-and-crossbones embedded at its top gave an expected impression for Mr. Belushi. Beneath that, a carving read ‘Here Lies Buried The Body Of John Belushi January 12, 1949 March 5, 1982 I may be gone, but Rock and Roll lives on.’ In front of the stone lay small U.S. flags surrounded by beer cans and whiskey bottles on small, white stones. Annie walked up behind me and gasped.
“Those bottles and cans are left here every week by his fans,” Mike said. “Jim Belushi comes by here to clean them up regularly. At least John is remembered.”
“Yes,” I said. “He will not be forgotten.”
“I don’t remember much about him,” Annie confessed.
“He became famous on Saturday Night Live and made the Animal House and Blues Brothers movies. His wild man personality was infamous.”
“Didn’t he O.D.in Los Angeles?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mike replied. “That sad day ended an era.”
We contemplated in silence. I remembered crazy days of the seventies and others who lived hard and died young.
We continued our tour, driving across a sparsely populated twenty-mile-long island to Chappaquiddick Island at The Vineyard’s eastern tip. Mike took us over dirt roads to Dike Bridge, a ten-foot-wide wooden bridge with no nearby lights.
“In 1969, Ted Kennedy drove off that bridge, landing in the water one night,” Mike said. “Easy to do on a dark night after partying. A college intern, Mary Joe Kopechne, was also in his car. She drowned under suspicious circumstances. We now have rails on the bridge, but back then, it had no railing,”
“This created quite a scandal that ended any hope for Ted to run for president,” I noted.
Again, we sat in silence, thinking about what might have been.
Our tour ended in Oak Bluffs, a village built by Methodists in the 19th century. It is memorable for 318 tiny gingerbread houses with New England architecture. Each house had been painted in bright, pastel colors different than other houses around it. Complex icicle-shaped trim with contrasting colors adorned these homes, giving Oak Bluff a fairyland effect. To preserve the homes’ unique character, only owners could occupy them. No renting was allowed.
The next day we left Falmouth to visit Barnstable inside Cape Cod’s hook. We signed up for a tour on a ship to go whale watching. Just a few miles offshore, we spotted whales breaching the surface. Our captain slowed his boat to drift close to a pod of a dozen humpbacks feeding on krill, a small shrimp relative.
These fifty-foot creatures were distinctive with black backs, white stomachs, and long front fins. They surfaced just feet away from our ship, looking at us through fearless, four-inch eyes while exhaling foul air that caused us to push back from the ship’s railing. Their feeding patterns were quite remarkable. On cue, several whales dove in unison to circle hordes of krill in deep water. A few minutes later, krill swarmed to the surface in a tight ball maybe six feet in diameter. Next, our National Geographic moment occurred when the humpbacks swam straight up, breaking the surface, head-to-head encircling their meal. I looked inside a circle of wide-open mouths inhaling a doomed ball of thousands of crustaceans. The stunning sight took my breath away. We watched humpbacks feed and mothers protecting their calves for an hour, then turned back to port.
I noticed a deeply tanned fellow with his family sitting across from us on our ride back. He wore a maroon baseball hat and shirt. His wrinkled face seemed familiar, but I could not quite place him. A large, intricate National Championship ring jumped out at me when I looked at his ham-sized hand. I had not seen a ring like that before.
“Are you Jackie Sherrill?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nice to meet you, Coach. I’m Gordon England. I’m a Longhorn, but I won’t hold that against you.”
He was the Texas Aggie football coach for many years, including when I was in college in Austin. Longhorns were the Aggie’s fiercest rival. The Aggie colors were maroon and white.
He laughed. When we shook hands, his monstrous ring mashed my fingers.
“That’s a mighty fine ring you have there.”
“Thank you. I won that at Alabama with Bear Bryant coaching us.”
I inspected his magnificent ring again.
“You were a great coach. Are you out here on vacation?”
“Yes, I have my family with me. Those whales were something else, weren’t they?”
“They sure were, Coach.
We turned back to our families. I don’t know which was better. Seeing the humpbacks or meeting Coach Sherrill. There did not have to be a better. I had an extra-fine day.
Annie had been looking forward to visiting Hyannis Port, so that’s where we ended up on our last day of vacation. Her idol had always been John Kennedy, so we circled the six-acre waterfront estate halfway up Cape Cod’s hook. Josef Kennedy’s eleven-bedroom, white house built with New England architecture looked like a hotel fifteen feet above the ocean. Annie relived the Kennedy family history as we parked on a side road to play tourist watching for identifiable occupants. Alas, no people walked the yard for us.
We finished our vacation by going to the surprisingly small JFK Presidential Museum in Barnstable. Letters and photographs from his life and presidency were fascinating. While reading the historical documents interested me, a somber atmosphere put a damper on any happiness I might have otherwise experienced. We left in unexpected introspection. On our long ride back to the airport, we relived our joy and wonder of lobsters, whales, and whiskey bottles on a grave. Our vacation had been everything and more than I expected.
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Valerie Allen
06/26/2022Gordon ~
Enjoyable read. I've been to Cape Cod and missed the interesting stuff! Thanks for the overview.
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Gerald R Gioglio
04/25/2022Nice piece, Gordon. It brought back memories of visiting several of those places years ago. BTW, for thirteen years we lived on West Point Island off the NJ upper shores barrier island, right on Barnegat Bay. Loved it!...then came Superstorm Hurricane Sandy....and we moved west Sigh. Take care, Jerry
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Lillian Kazmierczak
03/17/2022What a great travel guide and running narrative of your Cape Cod adventure! I have to admit that I was holding my breath through the whole thing waiting for the escaped inmates to show up! As always Gordon you tell an interesting engaging story. Congratulations on the short story star of the day!
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Lillian Kazmierczak
04/25/2022This was a wonderful narrative of your trip. I enjoyed every word! Congratulations on short story star of the week!
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Gordon England
03/21/2022Lillian I can depend on you to give energetic comments. That is what I live for as a writer. I make no money, but feedback is better
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Kevin Hughes
03/06/2022Aloha Gordon,
Alas I never made it to the Vineyard. I was invited once...but never made it. And I don't like sea food, so my friends North of Rhode Island have to explain to people I have "allergies." LOL I have been to the Cape though, and your description of those desolate roads is spot on.
Who needs fiction when you can write a traveloque like this? With one tiny little sticking point...finding a place, any place, where there aren't tourists in world with over seven billion people in it ...well, thats getting harder and harder to do. Even the so called "Isolated Spots" because of YouTube Influencers and Social Media are now "crowded" with people trying to get away from people.
Smiles, Kevin
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Gordon England
03/21/2022You are so right Kevin. I am guilty too of broadcasting stories about lonely hideaways. I must enjoy them while I can. Thanks for your usual kind words, Kevin.
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Gordon England
03/06/2022Thank you Ms Moore. I am running low on stories so giving travelogues. Wish I could do fiction
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