The beauty of Nantucket is that if you keep walking in a straight line, you will always reach a beach.
Beaches are fascinating things. They are always being reshaped by the ocean, and also by the seasons. The summer brings us scorching hot sand, suntans, swimming in the surf, and the smell of sunscreen. The mind is more sensory - more focused on the present. The summer beach is not a place for analysis. Rather, it's a place for relaxation. I almost feel high from inhaling my surroundings - the mind becomes relaxed. Oh, I may read a book or two, but the reading is always casual, never rigorous.
However, the winter (or early spring, in this case) beach is a different story. Like summer, it is a time when I inhale my surroundings, but the brain does not relax. Far from it! Winter beach walks make the mind race! Why is that? Why do I feel so inspired when I come here in the winter? Why does the summer beach feel so different?
Frankly, I have no idea. I suspect it has something to do with the icy northwest wind. It cuts through my sweater and jacket, and reddens my face. The wind makes the winter beachcomber uncomfortable, but only slightly so. It forces our blood to pump faster. Perhaps this boosts our brainpower.
Total load of crap? Probably. But it makes sense to me.
Tonight, I thought Cisco Beach would be a fitting destination for one of my early spring perambulations. Located on the southern side of the island, Cisco has strong surf, and beautiful sunsets. It is always quiet in the off-season. Then again, so is the whole island.
I parked my car and started to walk. The last time I came here, I had turned right, and walked down towards Madaket. To change things up, I decided to head left.
Immediately, I let myself become absorbed in the present. I wandered near the surf. The sand was covered in small rocks and pebbles, far more than I recall seeing in the past. All were beautifully smooth and round. And what an incredible array of color! One does not usually associate purples, pinks, oranges, blues, and greens with New England rocks, but here they were! They were speckled with what looked like little white pearls - only pebbles, I knew, but lovely ones nonetheless. Every time the surf came up, I would hear the rocks grinding on the bottom. A new beach being born.
There is something awe-inspiring in these simple walks. Sometimes the smallest details stimulate our brains the most. Often, in the hectic world we refer to as "real," we brush aside such simple things as minutia. Who has time for pebbles on a beach? I myself am guilty of it. However, as Thoreau said,
"There is in fact a sort of harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape within a circle of ten miles' radius,
or the limits of an afternoon walk, and the threescore years and ten of human life. It will never become quite familiar to you."
Such is the nature of a beach. It is never the same. As the ocean builds a Nantucket beach, it takes it away. The whole island is eroding. There will come a time when Nantucket vanishes beneath the waves, never to be seen again.
In a way though, much of Nantucket has already vanished.
I wandered the shores. For a time, I saw no houses. Only the ocean, surf, and sand. It was awe - inspiring. I imagined myself walking in the moccasins of a Wampanoag (the original Nantucketers). I thought - perhaps this is what they knew. In short order, though, I realized I was wrong. First off, the beaches the Wampanoag walked have long since vanished beneath the waves. Secondly, as a Wampanoag walked the shore, he would likely have seen an ocean teaming with whales. The white man helped take care of that. As a historian, I always long for the opportunity to walk through the past. There are still some opportunities for that, although they are increasingly hard to find.
This moment of reflection was suddenly jolted out of my conscience. I looked back at the sun. In a moment that I am sure made Henry David Thoreau role over in his grave, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. A quick text to Macy was in order. "Sunset is gorgeous. Moon is rising. Love you. - me"
I'm sorry Henry. I just couldn't bear to keep it all for myself!
With my quick technical aside in the present complete, I continued my walk. I wandered up the beach towards the dunes, and suddenly, rows upon rows of "trophy homes" came into view. I thought to myself, what would Henry David say to this?
Well, he actually already covered that subject. In his essay, "Walking," he wrote,
"...From many a hill I can see civilization and the abodes of man afar. The farmers and their works are scarcely more obvious than woodchucks and their burrows. Man and his affairs, church and state and school, trade and commerce, and manufactures and agriculture even politics, the most alarming of them all -- I am pleased to see how little space they occupy in the landscape..."
Granted, some things have changed since Henry went for his walks. The farms have been replaced by the homes of millionaire software engineers, doctors, and lawyers. There are more rabbits on Nantucket than woodchucks. Landscapes change with time, but our emotional connection to them, that basic human instinct to absorb one's surroundings - that, I think, is timeless. We need to preserve that.
What is the purpose of a trophy house on such a precarious perch? Unless moved, the sea will eventually consume these houses. These days, there is a lot of talk about "beach reclamation." People want to dump loads of sand on the shores to "reclaim" the island. They can do what they want. But nothing in nature is meant to last forever.
The biggest question, for me though, is more basic. Many of these homes are empty the majority of the time. Their owners are too busy with their lives in New York, Boston, and New Jersey to enjoy them very often. The very forces that enabled them to acquire their homes also keep them away. What, I wonder, is the point of building a home in a gorgeous landscape, if you will seldom be there to enjoy it?
Henry suggests that all things that are man-made occupy "little space in the landscape." I have to agree with him on this one. When you get right down to it, we really are pathetically small. Despite what we may think, we are not in total control. Great trophy homes that are supposed to reflect our awesome power and status are merely empty shells waiting to be consumed by the waves. We can't control that. All we can do is move the house back 100 yards, or pay a ton of money to dredge up some sand. It's just a matter of time.
After sunset, I looked back at the moon, nearly full. What a beautiful sight.
The winter beach reminds me to take time to enjoy the simple things in life. It is in the simple times that the brain is often the most stimulated.
