Cannibals of Nantucket

My first clue that we had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd came as we made coffee in the van at 07:00 in the ferry parking lot. Volvos, Mercedes, and Land Rovers arriving in a steady stream disgorged nattily dressed young couples and their fair-haired children in summer frocks and soccer jerseys. The daddies all wore polo shirts, crisp white or salmon-colored shorts, and Docksider boat shoes while the mommies sported light cotton sun-dresses or tennis skirts and sandals.

In my generic black t-shirt and cargo pants (neither fresh from the laundry) I felt that I was bringing down the general ambience of the parking lot considerably.

As ferry time was approaching and we still needed to figure out exactly where the dock was, we gulped the last of our coffee, lifted the bikes from the rack and headed toward the terminal.

The Fast Ferry (one hour to the island) is $66 per person for a day trip out and back. An extra $16 per person allowed us to bring our bikes on the boat and also to board first giving us our pick of seats. We chose to sit outside on the upper deck and soon Hyannis Port was disappearing behind us as we headed toward the island.

I first heard of Nantucket when I read Moby Dick by Herman Melville in my second semester of Freshman English. Moby Dick, written in 1851, was inspired by the sinking of a real ship, the Essex, a whaling vessel that sailed from Nantucket in August of 1819 on what was supposed to be the 21 year-old ship’s final voyage.

It certainly was.

Some 1,600 km west of the Galápagos Islands in the Pacific, the Essex was attacked and sunk by a Sperm Whale. The crew of 21 men were forced to abandon ship dispersing into three small whaling boats.

The nearest inhabited land was the Polynesian Islands but the crew believed those islands were inhabited by cannibals (they weren’t) and opted instead to try for a land mass nearly three times as far away.

It was a mistake that would cost them dearly. In the end, only 10 men survived, some of the deceased having been shot and eaten by their mates thus finding their greatest fears realized in a tragic, ironic twist worthy of the ancient Greek playwrights.

Herman Melville visited Nantucket just once in 1852, a year AFTER the publication of Moby Dick so I did have some inclination that he might not be the most reliable narrator of its charms, especially, more than 125 years later, but I was not prepared for what we would find.

Hint: we did not find a quaint old whaling port.

At 09:30 Barbara and I came rolling off the ferry and into the biggest traffic jam this side of the Mass. Turnpike. The town of Nantucket where the ferries dock, was clogged with Jeeps, Land Rovers, and massive SUVs most of them new, shiny, and astonishingly clean. There were plenty of well-heeled pedestrians clogging the roads as well. The streets were lined with boutiques, gift shops, ice cream parlors, electric bike and scooter rentals, and cafe style eateries all of which had long lines snaking out onto the narrow congested sidewalks.

We took a quick look and headed on our battery-free bikes for the shared path toward the town of Siasconset, on the eastern side of the Island. Parts of the trail passed through some lovely woods and scrub brush but much of it was along side a busy highway where cars and eighteen-wheeled trucks whizzed by.

A few hours later we arrived on the eastern side of the island, which did afford us a fine view of the Sankaty Head Lighthouse, which has been calling out stern alarms and merry meetings since 1850. Standing sentry amongst the wind-swept grass at the edge of the glimmering sea, it is perhaps the most idyllic spot on the whole island.

The town of “S’conset” as it is known, is less so. The weathered cottages are charming enough until you realize that they go for $2.5 million and up for a fixer-upper that could use a few hundred thousand dollars worth of “TLC” just to make it sea worthy. Most are in the $8 million plus range. The median house price on the island is $1.3 million.

In the center is a little market that sells essentials, snacks and a few baked goods. Having had just a hard-boiled egg and coffee for breakfast many hours ago and with many kilometers of biking ahead we splurged on a pre-made tuna wrap and a croissant for $22. The area around the market was crammed with more upscale vehicles, their important looking owners, and their children.

When we got back to the port, we found we still had another two hours before our return ferry back to Cape Cod departed. After scarfing two slices of street pizza ($17.14) and enjoying an ice cold Diet Coke ($3.00), Barbara opted for a bit more bike riding (of course!) while I, more or less pooped decided on a visit to the Nantucket Historical Association’s Museum of Whaling (Adult Admission $25).

There a young man, who presented as more ivy league than hardtack, told a 45 minute story about the aforementioned Essex, which left me just enough time to dash around the museum and quickly take in the displays on whaling, lamp oil, and 19th Century ship construction. The museum shop offered the usual assortment of coffee, mugs, t-shirts, and refrigerator magnets all cheerily embossed with figures of earth’s larges sea mammals. I passed on the opportunity to purchase a souvenir and left as empty handed as the survivors of the Essex arriving home in 1821 though I admit I was tempted by a whale shaped butter dish made of blue glass ($38).

I met up with B and we had just enough time to enjoy two small cups of gourmet ice cream ($26.01) as we waited for the ferry to whisk us back. Reflecting on our day, we decided to scrap our planned journey to Martha’s Vineyard on the morrow since, as far as we could tell, it would offer much of the same. Frankly, I didn’t think we could afford it! Instead we decided to remain on the Cape and bike the lovely, scenic, and quiet Cape Cod Rail Trail (free).

Disembarking the ferry, we cycled back to the van and then drove through more horrible traffic back to the town of Brewster where our campsite and supper awaited. On the dinner menu: spaghetti and tomato sauce prepared on the Coleman camp stove, and salad with vinaigrette dressing. Dinner for two including the stove fuel and a few glasses of wine from a box: $5.75.

Our modest meal included no human nor any other kind of animal flesh, but it was one for which the hungry sailors of the Essex would have, no doubt, been grateful. I certainly was.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.

The Boring Phone

I follow a number of tech channels on YouTube. Most of them are about Apple. Many of them are always whining that the iphone has become too boring. They long for the days when each new iPhone release each year brought an exciting feature like FaceTime or Apple Pay or GPS navigation for driving. Last year with the iPhone 16, Apple added a dedicated button to activate…the camera. Even I, Apple Fan Boy-In-Chief scratched my head at that one.

There was a time when I bought the new iPhone pretty much every year, but these days I tend to keep my phones for two or even three years. Currently, I have the iPhone 15 Pro. Prior to that I had the iPhone 12 Pro. Many people keep their phones even longer. I helped a friend recently replace her iPhone 7, which came out in 2016!

These days my upgrade cycle is largely driven by when my mom needs a new phone. When her phone is no longer able to get software upgrades, I get a new phone. Then my old phone goes to my wife and her phone goes to my mom. Currently, my mom is rocking a very capable iPhone 11 Pro that I bought for myself 5 years ago. It will be able to run iOS 26 which will release in September and likely iOS 27 as well.

But believe it or not, I am happy to have a boring phone and have intentionally made my phone even more boring by deleting all the non-essential and potentially distracting apps.

In 2020, I deleted my Facebook and Instagram accounts. I believe they are detrimental to humanity and weren’t doing me any good. Then when you-know-who purchased the social media firm formerly known as Twitter, I deleted that account as well. As for Tick Tock, I never went down that road.

There is a whole group of content creators who have made videos about giving up their smart phones and replacing them with either flip phones or the new and somewhat popular ‘dumb phones’ like the Light Phone in order to simplify their lives. I was intrigued by this but it didn’t make sense to me for three reasons.

One is that I already have a phone and it seemed crazy to ditch a perfectly good device to spend $600 on a new one that did far less.

Two, there are some things like GPS for driving or banking apps with mobile deposit that I just don’t want to live without. Seriously, am I going to drive to the bank to deposit a check for $6.42 when I can just do it on my phone in 60 seconds?

And three, yeah, like I am going to use anything other than an Apple iPhone.

Simplifiying my existing phone seemed like a good compromise. Keeping the device I love but spending less time looking at it.

Doing an app cleanse was the next logical step. I removed all the news apps from my phone and anything that could be engaging or have entertainment value. This included the Apple News App, The Washington Post App, and The New Yorker.

What I am left with is just ten apps on the home screen and a few widgets that show my calendar, health metrics, and the status of our new smart dishwasher, who is named Hygieia after the Greek goddess of cleanliness. I also decided that I would not use my phone in public unless I truly needed to check for a piece of information such as a flight update or a appointment. I turned off all but the most essential notifications including email notifications and sounds. I even modified the lock screen to show the time and nothing more and turned off the ‘always on’ display to just be dark when I am not using the phone.

Thus, I am now able to keep my phone in my pocket most of the time. What do I do instead when I am sitting on the subway or waiting for a friend at the restaurant? I read a book or I look around at everyone else scrolling on their phone or as is becoming increasingly frequent, listening to a very loud program with the speaker at full blast. (Maybe this is a direct consequence of Apple no longer including earbuds with every phone?)

Recently, I was in a waiting room where three different people had their devices blasting sounds at the same time. These were people my age who really ought to know better!

Two forms of entertainment still live on my phone. One is podcasts which I listen to only when I walk and the other is music, which is mostly for driving.

The result is a device that is useful but not much more, a tool I can use to get things done but is not engaging in any way. To be sure, I can still use my computer for entertainment purposes but it is more of a commitment to take it out and most of the time I am not carrying it with me.

And I am constantly looking for ways to make my phone even more boring, recently experimenting with making the display black and white. Far from anticipating the rollout of the next iPhone, I am hoping to ignore it.

Ok, that’s not true but I am not planning to buy it. And maybe not the one after that. Who knows, maybe the next iPhone my mom gets will be one she has to buy with her own money. Don’t worry, mom, I’ll still set it up for you.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing

September Song

“Ah! sunflower, weary of time/
Who countest the steps of the sun,/Seeking after that sweet golden clime
/Where the traveller’s journey is done...”

— William Blake, 1757-1827

It took us a while to find them. We drove to the McKee-Beshers Wildlife Management Area on River Road where my wife Barbara had seen them in past years. We walked to the field and all around it. Just a lot of tall grass. We started back to the car, meeting along the way another seeker. She hadn’t found them either. 

Back in the car, we drove another 5 km down the road to another entrance to the WMA. There were many cars parked there, which seemed promising. An older man with a floppy hat, photographer’s vest and a large birding scope was headed back to his car. “Do you know where they are?” we asked. He pointed us toward a trail. “Follow that path,” he said. 

The path took us past a marsh covered with algae and lily pads. Frogs spoke unseen from the water. Then the trail turned into a wooded area bustling with butterflies and damselflies. A crawdad made its way across the overgrown track.

Then we saw them. The field of sunflowers nearly 500 meters long and perhaps 200 meters wide. That’s when we realized that we were a week or two late. The sunflowers were still in full bloom but fraying at the edges, a bit bedraggled in the hot summer air, no longer at their peak. 

It is a cliché that life is short but if that is true for a human being it is all the more so for a flower. The life of a blossom is counted in days and these sunflowers, which had been in the full blush of youth just about a week ago, were now preparing to enroll in Medicare. Yet, in that short time, they had fulfilled their reason for being. Each of those thousands of flowers had produced hundreds of seeds, potential sunflower offspring carried to the four winds in the guts of birds and other critters or simply fallen to the ground to take root in whatever soil they find. Reproduction, the mission statement, for every species on the planet, the path from the present to the future, had been executed in breathtaking beauty by these cheery pagan sun worshipers. 

Like me, a little past its prime.

But although their core purpose was complete, they were not yet ready to relinquish the summer. Today, as the sun appeared, each of those blooms turned its face toward the source of life and followed it across the sky as if rejoicing at the chance for another day.  

“They are a little past their prime,” my wife said.

“I know the feeling,” I replied. 

As I said it, it occurred to me that more than just a quip, I had stumbled upon a truth about my own existence. I too am a bit past my peak. I too have largely fulfilled my purpose. My own seed has been scattered and taken root in other soils (in the Denver metro area as it turns out).

“It’s a long, long while from May to December,” the classic tune, September Song tells us and I have without a doubt arrived at the eponymous month “when the days grow short.”

But a short day is better than no day, and so, like the sunflower, I awaken gratefully each day eager to see what it will bring. I go into the morning air (after coffee, of course), turn my face toward the sun and the Source of Life, and follow them until nightfall when I fall back into bed. 

But even in sleep, I face east, anticipating the moment when the sun and I will turn our countenances toward one other once more and I will greet her again — at least as long as we both continue to rise. 

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.