A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard
Page 1
A SHOOT ON MARTHA’S VINEYARD
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For the Nereid who lives with me on her island: my wife, Shirley
“Twain are the gates of shadowy dreams,
The one is made of horn, the other of ivory;
Such dreams as pass the portals of ivory
Are deceitful, and bear tidings that are unfulfilled.
But the dreams that pass through the gate of horn
Bring true issue to whoever of mortals beholds them.”
—PENELOPE to ODYSSEUS
The Odyssey
— 1 —
There have always been pirates on Martha’s Vineyard. Some came ashore in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries with cutlasses and pistols; others are arriving right now with briefcases and California smiles. There’s not a whisker of moral difference between them.
Zee and I first heard about Hollywood’s latest plans for the Vineyard in early June. According to rumor, first noted in the Martha’s Vineyard Times and later rather breathlessly reported in the Gazette, it was to be a film about a modern treasure hunt for ancient pirate gold buried on the island.
The movie makers were to do the filming in September, which Zee and I agreed was probably a good idea since, aside from the occasional hurricane that finds its way to New England in September, fall is often the loveliest time of the island year. Not only have most summer people returned home so their children can go back to school, but the weather is good, the water is still warm, and the bluefish are coming back.
From the wide-eyed tones of local reporters, we gathered that the producers, directors, and stars of the film were famous folk, but since Zee and I rarely went to the movies, they were unknown to us.
We actually liked movies, but it took really good ones to get us to go to island theaters, where every showing was an adventure due to ancient projection equipment and cost cutting by the theater owners.
If the managers remembered to turn the houselights on before the showing of the film, they often forgot to turn them off after the movie started. Screens routinely went black at key moments and stayed black while audiences hooted and stamped and, to their credit, laughed. Sound and image would fail to correspond. Whole reels were out of focus or occasionally omitted entirely. Sometimes there was only one projectionist for the two theaters in Oak Bluffs, and he left one audience waiting while he got things going across the street, then rushed back to start the other movie, and continued to run back and forth all evening, changing reels or doing whatever it is those guys are supposed to do up there in the projection booth.
Island residents who are seriously interested in movies sometimes go over to America so they can see them in real theaters. But other people love the island theaters precisely because they are what they are. For them, the shabbiness, the broken seats, soggy popcorn, and the projection mishaps are part of the entertainment, the theater being a sort of stage on which they themselves are players, and as much a part of the island’s summer ambiance as are the golden beaches, the sun, the trees and gardens, and the harbors full of sailboats.
It was only when we felt slightly wacky that Zee and I were willing to shell out the required dollars to sit in sticky seats and participate in the living theater of Vineyard cinema. If we really wanted to see a movie, we rented one, usually an elderly one, and watched it on the television that had come to the house when Zee moved in.
“Part of my dowry,” she had explained. “Like the cellular phone.”
The cellular phone had been kept in her little Jeep when she’d been single, but was now in my Land Cruiser, since that was the vehicle we usually drove on the beach. I had never used it, and didn’t plan to, but it was there “just in case.”
I’d never had a television in the house before we got married, but was glad to have this one since we could now watch an occasional Red Sox game without driving all the way to Boston. I built a shelf on the wall for the television set and its accompanying VCR, and that became our movie theater if we really wanted one.
So it was that we were both notably ignorant of the famous names that were mentioned in the press, and it was August before we met any of them.
“They’re going to hire local people for bit parts and extras,” said Zee, her nose in the Times. "That should be fun. If we see the movie, we can look for the people we know.”
It would not be the first movie to be made on Martha’s Vineyard. The most notable earlier one was a famous fishy thriller that, decades before, had kept a lot of shark-fearing people out of the water for at least one summer, and had entertained hundreds of islanders, who were less interested in the great white villain of the film than in spotting Uncle George as part of the background crowd, or little Petie and Sally on the beach with the other extras. So cute! And now they’re all grown up! Time flies!
“They’ll definitely want to hire you,” I said. Zee was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
“And you, too,” said Zee. “And Joshua, for sure.”
We looked at Joshua, who looked back with his big eyes. He and Zee were star material without a doubt.
“Immortal fame and wealth beyond our wildest dreams will be ours at last,” I said.
Zee nodded. “And about time, too.”
Joshua agreed, and no doubt Oliver Underfoot and Velcro, the two cats, would have too, had they been asked.
Joshua, having arrived on the Vineyard in May, was an alimentary canal with lungs. His face reminded me of a cross between Edward G. Robinson’s and Winston Churchill’s, but he was a generally cheerful fellow with a winning smile, and we were delighted to have him in our house. An award winner, for sure.
And Zee, who had toted him around single-handed all winter before delivering him into the outer world, was lovelier than ever, as many women are after they produce their offspring. With her deep, dark eyes and her long blue-black hair, she was Gaea, earth goddess, mother of at least one potential Titan, sleek as an otter, graceful as a panther.
“Setting fame and fortune aside for the moment,” she now said, “and paying attention to more important things, such as the new tide tables, I note that if we leave right now, we can fetch Wasque Point just in time to fish the last two hours of the west tide.
“What do you say?”
“Done.”
For reasons known only to Neptune, the bluefish, which normally would be visiting Nova Scotia in late August, were, instead, still here in Vineyard waters, delighting the island fisherpeople, of whom we were two.
I put down my living room book and went out to load fishing gear into my faithful, rusty, old Land Cruiser. Rods on the roof rack, tackle boxes and fish box in the back, drinks in a cooler, and a quick check to see if our car books were there just in case the bluefish didn’t show up. I also put in Joshua’s stuff: a car seat, his homemade beach chair so he could watch his parents fish and learn a few tricks of the trade (you can’t start too young), an umbrella so he wouldn’t burn his delicate skin, and my personally designed baby pack, good for carrying him on my back or my chest, depending on how I rigged it up, in case I decided to tote him down the beach while I fished.
By the time this was done, Zee had the diapers, lotions, bottles, and other Joshua gear together, and had slipped into her shorts and a shirt she knotted over her once-again-flat belly, and had her hair done up in the blue bandanna she liked to wear when she was fishing.
“He’s too young to drive alone,” said Zee, lifting him off her hip and buckling him into the car seat. “Besides, you know how it is when you give your kid the keys. He goes to some girl’s house and shows off, and the first thing you know, the cops are calling your house telling you to come down and pick him up at the jail because he tried to use a fake ID to buy beer.”
We drove out our sandy driveway to the highway, took a left, and went into Edgartown. The A & P-Al’s Package Store traffic jam, perhaps the island’s worst, thanks entirely to people making left-hand turns off and onto the main road, was only half bad since it was still fairly early in the morning, and we were soon past and, headed out of town toward Katama. There, at the end of the pavement, we turned east and drove over the sands toward Chappy.
The Norton’s Point barrier beach hooking Chappaquid-dick to the rest of the island was once again open to off road vehicle traffic, after having been closed since Memorial Day on the orders of Lawrence Ingalls, a state biologist for the state’s Department of Environmental Protection. Ingalls was the object of both loathing and adoration by many islanders for closing the beach during plover nesting and fledging season.
Now that the chicks had finally flown, ORVs could once again ply the sands as in the good old pre-Ingalls days, so trucks filled with fisherpeople, picnickers, bathers, and shellfishers were ranging to the far corners of the beach, where their drivers and passengers could, in late August, pursue their traditional pleasures.
As we drove along the beach, we could see Edgartown far away through the narrows of Katama Pond to our north. To our south, the waves of the Atlantic rolled in from countless uninterrupted miles and crashed on the yellow-white sands. We saw oystercatchers, terns, gulls, ospreys and snowy egrets, and pointed them out to Joshua, whose Vineyard bird lore was scant since he hadn’t been on the island for long.
The closing of the beach was a hot and heavy issue on the Vineyard, with ardent moralists on both sides of the argument, as might be expected. I should know, for I was one of them, myself.
On one side, my side, were the drivers of off-road vehicles, who, like their parents and grandparents, had always driven over the sands to the Vineyard’s fabled but far-away fishing, shellfishing, and picnicking spots, and who saw no reason why they shouldn’t keep on doing it. On the other side were people who saw themselves as environmentalists, as protectors of a fragile ecology, and as defenders of threatened species such as the innocent piping plover, the Vineyard’s equivalent of the snail darter.
Never the twain did meet, and for the many summers of what some still thought of as the Plover Wars, the environmentalists carried the day, led by Lawrence Ingalls, who, as far as the many members of the losing side were concerned, was, as was each of his supporters, an irrational bleep.
The environmentalists’ principal reason for closing the beach was their belief that ORVs were destroying the habitat of the plovers and thus needed to be banned during the birds’ nesting and fledgling seasons. The state biologist accordingly interpreted DEP regulations to mean that no vehicle could drive within a hundred yards of any plover nest during these crucial weeks. And since the Norton’s Point barrier beach was only a couple of hundred yards wide at the point where one plover pair happened to have established a nest, the whole beach was closed to traffic for June, July, and most of August, the very months when most over-sand drivers used it.
The drivers saw themselves as lovers of birds and the beach, and resented being considered the enemies of plovers. They reminded anyone who would listen that only one plover had been killed by an ORV in the year before the beach was closed, and that one had also been killed the year after it was closed, by a truck driven by one of the beach’s hired plover protectors; they argued that the plover eggs and fledglings that had been destroyed during the years when the beach had been open to traffic had been done in not by trucks but by skunks, gulls, and other natural plover predators; they considered Lawrence Ingalls to be a fool and a totalitarian bureaucrat, and spoke his name with loathing for having deprived them of their traditional joys for no reason other than ideological whim.
For years, members of both the environmentalist and ORV groups thought wild thoughts and made wild statements, and for years violence was feared or threatened by members of both factions. Some plover lovers believed that the plover nests would be systematically destroyed by ardent ORV drivers, and pointed to anti-plover T-shirts that had emerged on the Vineyard’s summer scene, and to the popularity of the lyric, “I’m running over a piping plover"; some drivers spoke of getting all of the ORVs on the island together at Katama and then driving, en masse, from one end of Norton’s Beach to the other, ridding the beach of every last plover nest, and arguing that if there were no more plovers, there would be no plover problem. Zack Delwood, who was a fine fisherman but also a bully and a hater who shared no more love for me than I for him, was even more specific. His favorite proclamation was “No goddamned plover lovers, no more plover problem!”
But none of the wild threats or imaginings actually took place. The drivers had fumed and the environmentalists had ignored them and their arguments.
“Don’t frown,” said Zee, reading my mind as she often does. “Forget Ingalls. The beach is finally open. Enjoy the day.”
Good advice, and I took it.
It was only later that murder was done.
— 2 —
We passed about a dozen parked ORVs on our way to Wasque. Most were owned by morning sunbathers, but a couple of picnics had already gotten started on the Katama Pond side, and I could see some clammers and quahoggers at work in the shallows of the pond.
But we were not shellfishing today, we were after the wily August bluefish, who had decided to summer on the Vine-yard, and there was no better place to hunt them than at Wasque Point during the last two hours of the falling tide.
There was a line of Jeeps at the point when we got there, and there were bluefish under every one of them. Rods were bent and everyone was happy, even though the fishermen were shoulder to shoulder. The fish were in, and clearly had been for some time.
“Wow!” cried Zee. “Look at that!”
I found a parking spot farther to the left than I usually like to be and pulled in beside the almost new truck that belonged to Moonbeam Berube. Moonbeam and his ethereally beautiful son, Jason junior, were hauling in the fish, just like everyone else, which was a good thing because it meant that there’d be food on the Berube table that night, which was not always the situation.
Moonbeam was reputed to be the product of a long line of incestuous ancestors, and was, at any rate, one of the Vineyard’s sad cases. He and his wife and many children lived in a hovel up in Chilmark. All of his children were nearly beautiful, with fine bones and delicate skin. But their eyes were dim and their prospects dimmer. Moon beam was sly, but was bad at everything but fishing, and his family was a constant concern to social workers, teachers, cops, and other toilers in the public realm. Where he’d gotten the money for his truck was a mystery to many, but no one cared enough to ask him to solve it.
There was nothing I could do for Moonbeam except be friendly, so I waved at him and turned to Zee. “Grab your rod and get down there,” I said. “You can’t catch ’em from up here!”
But she hesitated. “You go. I’ll take care of Joshua first.”
“No. I was nailing them here the morning after Joshua showed up and the two of you were still in the hospital. I’ll take care of him now. Get going!”
Still she hesitated.
“They won’t wait,” I said. ’Jeez, look at that one. Must be twelve pounds!”
Zee looked at the fish flopping on the sand, then at me, then at Joshua, then back at me.
“Go!” I said.
“Okay!”
She got out, snagged her rod off the roof rack, and trotted
down to the surf, looking like a dark Venus. She made her cast and the lure arched far out over the surf. As the lure hit the water, there was an immediate explosion of white as a fish hit the lure, and her rod bent as she set the hook.
“Now, pay attention,” I said to Joshua, as Zee began the fight to bring the fish in. “You want to know how to fish, you watch your mom.”
We watched as she hauled back, reeled down, and hauled back again, leaning against the strength of the fish, controlling it, never giving it that instant when it could snap the line or throw the hook.
There is a beauty in anything being done well, be it a good carpenter swinging a hammer, a good musician at work, or a good short-order cook producing food for a diner full of customers. You see it when an athlete is running well, when a dancer is one with the dance, or when someone makes a good hunting shot or handles a boat well. And it’s not only in humans that you see this, but in animals and birds as well. In the deer bounding into the forest, an osprey soaring above the beach, or in the stalking cat intent upon its prey. It has to do with economy of motion and the perfect coordination between action and intent. And when a beautiful creature like Zee is performing beautifully, the experience can be extraordinary.
So it was that dull Moonbeam and duller Jason, and the other fishermen nearest to Zee, held their casts and watched her bring in her bluefish. Gradually, more fishermen on either side of her stopped and watched as she worked the big fish in, as if they’d never seen a fish landed before, as if they were seeing a sea nymph, a Nereid, perhaps Amphitrite, herself.
She was unaware of her audience, concentrating totally on the fish, and when she brought it, thrashing and heaving, up through the last surge of water onto the sand, a sort of sigh of wonder seemed to pass among her observers.
Then she grinned at them and punched a fist of triumph through the air and the moment of magic was gone. She was no longer a goddess but just another one of them, one of the fisherpeople who had landed a big one during a blitz, so one by one they took their eyes away and went back to their own happy work.