Nantucket: My Love, My Solace

January 29, 2007

In a life marked with turmoil, sadness, and untold despair, the one thing that remained a constant comfort throughout my childhood was our summer holidays on Nantucket. No matter where we were living (and many moves put us in many different places year to year), no matter what sort of state I was in at the time, one thing was as certain as death and taxes: Nantucket.

Every year as spring rolled around I would eagerly anticipate the long drive to Hyannis from upstate New York, or southern Connecticut, or the drive from Logan Airport when we were living in Texas and had to rent a car. Our annual trips to Nantucket were one thing that seemed to put us all in a good mood; waiting at the loading dock before getting on the Eagle we were filled with the excitement that only pre-adolescent children can possess—but to some degree, we could sense it in our parents, too. Dad always seemed a bit more relaxed as he bought us lobster rolls and clam chowder before driving onto the boat; Mom would happily pull out the cards and Mad Libs for the ferry ride over. And the closer we got to the island, the more intense the feelings became: we could feel the rush of the salt air in our hair, smell the honeysuckle from miles away. As soon as we rounded Brant Point and began the slow ease into the harbor, the grey-shingled houses with their white trim seemed to smile at me and whisper, “Everything will be okay now.”

Clinically depressed since the ripe old age of nine, I had a different sort of childhood than one would have assumed looking from the outside in. We had a nice family, well-off (summers on Nantucket) and non-divorced parents. I was accomplished in school and could hold my own on a sports field. But I struggled in the throes of depression throughout a significant part of my childhood and through my adolescence, and the one thing that always brought me relief was our time on Nantucket.

From the bike riding to the weather (rain or shine) to the cobblestones in town, Nantucket was always there for me, reassuring in its consistency and calming in its relaxed, summer-town atmosphere. I knew I could ride my bike to Nobaside to escape any stress at home and just lying on the beach would bring me peace. I could get up early for breakfast with my dad at Arno’s, and, later on, at the Juice Bar. My siblings and I could sneak away and defy our parents’ reminders not to run down the dunes and do it anyway; we could be freer than we could anywhere else because, after all, Nantucket is the safest place in Christendom; we could test our father’s limits by swimming out “just a little farther” at Surfside. Cliff Road would always take me to Something Natural and riding through the cemetery at night would always be creepy in that way that New England cemeteries are. I could dig for sand crabs and, after a storm, brave the waves at Cisco. And everything, momentarily, was all right.

Many momentous occasions in my life have also occurred on Nantucket: an almost-first kiss; my first step into womanhood; my first sip of alcohol; a brief weekend spent with a friend before she went off to college lying under the stars on Madaket Beach sharing the depths of our souls. For these reasons alone Nantucket will always be special to me, but she is so much more than these incidents; she is a feeling unto herself, a lifestyle not found anywhere else, a calm promise that can never be broken.

During one particularly difficult time during high school—I had suffered a brutal back injury the spring of my junior year and was more or less debilitated for six months—our annual trip to Nantucket was replaced with a trip to Hawaii, instead. As much fun in the sun as Hawaii is, there was something different about this trip—a beach is not just a beach no matter where you are. The clear blue reefs of the tropical paradise were no match for the dark blue-green Atlantic waters; the smell of hibiscus and orchid leis were a weak replacement for hydrangea bushes and walls of honeysuckle. It was then that I realized what an important part of my life Nantucket was, how I had come to count on it as my therapy. My love affair with Nantucket had grown and matured through the years out of an unrealized longing for something to quell the storms raging inside of me; before I could understand it, Nantucket had found a way to ease the pain I felt and despair I could not seem to escape.

Any time I smell honeysuckle, or feel the faint tinge of salt in the air, or pass a weathered shingled house, I am transported back in time to a place where life was simple, where I had a brief respite from my demons. Nantucket has always been, and, I venture to say, always will be, the one place on Earth I truly feel at home. Since I’ve gotten older and have stopped going to the Island every summer, I have felt an emptiness that I know can only be replaced by a winding trip through Seven Seas or a wade through the shallow waters at Steps Beach.

As I’m beginning to enter adulthood—slowly, but determinedly—and attempting to put my past behind me, I’m realizing with greater clarity what it means to have such strong emotions attached to a place. Nantucket is more than just an island, it is an attitude, a state of mind, a haven that I can return to if not in person, then at least in spirit. Whether it be through an Eric Holch painting or a photo album or To Gillian on her 37th Birthday, I have learned to find Nantucket in every day things. It has brought me hope when I thought there was none, happiness when all I could see was sorrow, and bright memories when the present seemed so bleak. Nantucket has proven to me that one thing is certain: you can always go home again.