The air is so thick, there’s little difference between walking and swimming these days. High summer fog brings a certain relief to the island. Jet airliners cancel their direct service from busy cities to this foggy outpost, unable to navigate the haze. The buzz of propellor planes has been replaced with the hum of insects. Out in ’Sconset, the American Pilar roses, about two weeks past their peak, tumble down over weathered shingles, hot pink against a blanket of silver. Summer is, as always, a sort of fantasy. As long as you do not get lost in the fog.
The swimming has been wonderful down on Nonantum Road, but, as predicted, the surfers have discovered the new break and are starting to take over. We are used to traffic along Surfside Road, Old South Road, Easy Street — well, practically, every street — but traffic at this little stretch of beach, especially in the evening, is new. Some of the surfers are still learning who has the right of way. As long as the seals and the men in the gray suits don’t discover us, I don’t mind sharing.
By the time we make it down to the beach, around five or six at night, even if the sun has poked through during the day, the fog always rolls back in. Slanted sunlight filters through liquid air, the sky a gray cyclorama. The setting feels very theatrical. All the same players are here, day in and day out, memorizing our lines. A father skimboards along the shoreline, wiping out on the sand and getting back up again. The woman in the green wetsuit stands at the water’s edge. Maybe today is the day she gets her head wet. A gull — the same gull as yesterday? They all look the same after a while — unhinges his jaw and swallows a hamburger in three quick bites.
The beach is a strangely intimate space. We perform a choreographed dance in the water, trying to dodge the surfers and boogie boarders, trying to stay close enough to other humans that if the fog gets any thicker, we can still find our way back to the shore. On the beach, we take our places, marked by soggy, threadbare towels. Whole dramas unravel over the course of a summer day. It is a place that can feel so safe — warm, wet, even womb-like — until you are suddenly lost.
A summer visitor recently told me a story of getting lost in the fog, down on the Intracoastal, somewhere near Jekyll Island, Georgia. He was piloting a 20-foot boat when the fog rolled in, obliterating everything. His high-tech instruments had stopped working earlier in the day. He said he found a place to wait at anchor until the fog burned off. “Nothing else I could have done,” he said, “so, I went fishing.”
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. When it’s too difficult to see what’s ahead of you, sometimes all you can do is find somewhere to wait — or go fishing — until the fog burns off. With time, all will become clearer. And all things considered, Nantucket Island in the summer is a pretty good place to wait it out. Whatever it is you are waiting for.
