The road from Surfside to town is dotted with Queen Anne’s Lace and pale blue chicory flowers. It’s been more than two years since I started relying on walking as my main form of transportation around the island, in all seasons. I get restless sitting in traffic. And while we don’t have the sort of traffic you have in cities, there are still choke points around the island. We had a string of blisteringly hot days, and now it is almost cool in the mornings. There are back-to school-circulars in the newspaper. Buy a new backpack if you have to, but don’t let the advertisers convince you that summer is nearing the end. The water is still impossibly warm. The comb jellies are here, lighting up night swims like fallen stars.
I’m starting to wonder how many people actually go in the water on Nantucket. There are miles of coastline, but there are places to go where you won’t see a soul even in August. (I won’t give away my secret spots.) A friend confessed to me that she had not been swimming since a particularly warm day in April. Shocking, sure, but not shameful. Maybe she watched Ivy Meeropol’s After the Bite documentary, an excellent investigation into the tragic, fatal shark attack in Wellfleet in 2018 and the aftermath that followed. The waters near Cape Cod are now not just a shark habitat, but a shark hot spot.
More than the sharks, the rip current off the South Shore has kept me from the ocean beaches many days. I don’t want to end up swept out to Martha’s Vineyard, or worse. Lifeguards fly double red flags on days when the surf is too dangerous. Some people don’t listen. Then comes the sound of an ambulance siren screaming down Surfside Road.
So, I’ve spent most of the summer exploring the calmer North Shore. Last October, I bought a snorkel and googles to dive for scallops. It was expensive at the time, but proved to be a good investment. I have delighted in looking at the sea floor, the spider crabs and shells and seaweed, a whole universe underneath our sandy feet. Perhaps the closest I’ll get to being an aquanaut, there is a childlike joy in diving beneath the surface and still being able to see.
A place of endless fascination is The Creeks. Down past the boat launch at Sayle’s Seafood, near where the old shipyard used to be, years ago, the sandy beach gives way to a salt marsh. The current moves at strong clip. There is usually someone swimming down there as though they were training for a triathlon, arms and legs coordinated against the endless current. I watch as they swim the crawl, thumb entering the water first, arm twisting like a paddle. Their legs kick swiftly, without a splash above the surface. All this energy exerted, and they go nowhere.
Unlike sitting in traffic, there is no frustration here at the lack of forward momentum these efforts produce. And, while there are plenty of invasive European green crabs, there are no sharks in the creek. Not yet.
