Nantucket: Where We Left Off

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I'm back from four full days on Nantucket. I missed the family but a change of pace was in order and as always, the island delivered. I was flung back into the fray yesterday because there is simply no way to ease back in. At this hour, I am still detoxing from pitchers of white trash sangria and late night kitchen dancing.

This vacation never disappoints even when it threatens to: 1) FTG forecasted a wash out but every day was perfect -- they were the kinds of days where when the sun got too hot, an ocean breeze would kick up and allow that extra hour of chilling at the beach. 2) Before boarding the Grey Lady, I was stopped by two security guards who pointed to the giant bottle of Cavit jutting out of my canvas tote. Apparently, transporting alcohol on the ferry is illegal. Who knew? We’ve been doing it for years, not wanting to pay premium at Island Spirits. One of the guards reached into my bag, presumingly to confiscate the contraband. Instead, he wrapped it up in my sweatshirt, camouflaged it with my book and magazine and sent me on my way. (Thanks, man.) The overall sense of well being lasted until I learned that they no longer serve hot dogs on the fast ferry. (What?!)

Upon docking, we indulged in our annual tradition of de-ferrying, hitting the Tiki for some frozen cocktails, food shopping buzzed and then cabbing to the house where we found all the good vibes lingering from years past. This is a rare occurrence with so many people and personalities in one house but we’ve found the right mix. We sadly missed our pregnant pals but celebrated the addition of Meghan, Nic, and Dillard (who’s requested her PU name to be “Dillighta.” not “Dillbag”).

We picked up where we left off last year: There was kitchen dancing to the annual Nantucket mix to which everyone on the trip – and those there in spirit – lent a song. As always, there were competing iPods lined up at the Bose, their on-the-go playlists jockeying for position. (BTW, I never ever want to hear “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy again. Ever. Especially since we now know what “Downloading some Country Music” is code for.)

Each morning, I fired up the iPod and took my walk to the rotary for iced coffee.
Every afternoon, we walked to the beach to stare at the ocean and read, idle chit chat rising from our cluster of beach chairs. The snack plates at cocktail hour weren’t quite as robust as years past having no Dell’Olios on board, but we over-enjoyed Brownguy’s batches of white trash sangria and played rousing games of LCR at the kitchen table. Nic was thrilled to nurture her gambling problem on island, taking all of our money – as usual – then gloating mercilessly.

We made Post-It notes for Cameo’s HR folder: Infractions: drinking, gambling, listening to country music, and cutting up her bathing suit.

We shared moments with off-island pals via text and picture mail, which resulted in an uncomfortable moment for Nic when she unwittingly walked in on Brownguy and T-Bag taking an “odd” photo to send to Smitty.

We hadn’t been to the Chicken Box in a few years because we thought we were getting too old for that scene. "Nonsense," we said. While getting ready, I received a call from home – “the babies want to say good night.” But it was a sneak attack, a ruse: They started crying and begging me to please come home immediately. In addition to their grief, Vito was apparently on a hunger strike (he didn’t lose any weight, btw). After I hung up, I started to descend into a guilty meltdown but was abruptly pulled from the quicksand. I was told to “shake it off” and was handed a madras in a pint glass.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the Box, the band sucked. And when the band is bad, the Box is worse. We distracted ourselves for a few hours, becoming embroiled in a barn burner of a pool tournament. Then, one of the infamous Duke lacrosse players sauntered by with some junior mints and we realized that perhaps we really were too old to be there. Seconds later, a sunburned senior citizen with his Nantucket Reds pulled up to his armpits walked in and all bets were off. We decided to head back to the house anyway -- which was an excellent call. I have some hilarious footage of what transpired but unfortunately cannot post it here.

The next day, we hung out at the house a lot where the occasional game of horse shoes broke out in between Coronas. That night, we had dinner at Cioppino’s where they seated all 10 of us in a private room upstairs. We half expected them to put some orange cones out around us too. Our unnecessary nightcap involved T-Bag squeezing into my denim jacket just to horrify some patrons at the Boarding House. Then, back to the house for hot dogs and hot tubbing and body bomb tributes to all the new babies getting ready to crown on the mainland.

Luckily, we were able to squeeze in a final lament at the Tiki before bidding the island farewell -- until next year when we'll pick up where we left off all over again. Good times, all.