A piece of good advice: Anytime you are on Martha's Vineyard, have a bathing suit and a towel close at hand because you never know when you will be headed to a beach. The island has many of them, of course, and there's no telling when you may be called to visit one. For example, you could head off to work a matinee show on a brilliant Saturday afternoon, only to find the matinee has been canceled and you now have a few hours unexpectedly free -- with an invitation to go to the beach.
That was my situation Saturday. I had spent the morning doing the usual handouts of This Week to ferry passengers in Oak Bluffs, a duty I often complain about but one which sometimes offers some amusement. On this particular morning, I was wondering if Martha's Vineyard is some sort of Elephants' Graveyard for troubled marriages since I kept bumping into couples that were clearly headed for the rocks. There was the prickly pair who were obviously looking for an excuse to argue as they walked along Circuit Avenue.
She: What are you looking at?
He: Don't you want lunch?
She: Why are you stopping?
He: I was looking at the menu.
She: At what?
He (pointing to a menu displayed in a restaurant window): The menu. They've got a menu! I was trying to read it. God -- anything?!
She: What's that supposed to mean?!
It was like "Revolutionary Road" with sunblock.
Then there was the French family getting ready to board the ferry. They had a deluxe bike towing one of those little tents-on-wheels for their toddler. But Daddy had the bright idea of loading a couple of heavy backpacks on top of the little tent, which caused it to topple over on its side, prompting a tantrum from Maman (thankfully, the baby was not in the tent at the time). To make matters worse, the accident happened in plain view of at least a dozen other would-be passengers and Maman was so busy scolding Dad that she stepped away from her son, who, perhaps to distance himself from the shouting, started to walk into the crosswalk.
"Regarde le bebe!" Daddy shouted in alarm, as a pedestrian reached down to stop the baby from fleeing the scene. Maman, who had been busy screaming choice insults such as "cochon!" (pig!) at Daddy, whipped around and grabbed the kid. Then it was Daddy's turn to do the name-calling. I would be happy to translate the rest of the confrontation, but unfortunately they started bickering so quickly I couldn't keep up; suffice to say, the ferry trip was not going to be smooth sailing.
Anyhow, a few hours later I was back at Oak Bluffs for a few pleasant hours on the sand and in the water, which is now warm enough for comfortable swimming. Heather, one of the four "Volcano" stars, wanted to get some sun before the evening performance and we had a very pleasant break on the beach.
Well, mostly pleasant. Every so often, we noticed this awful smell on the breeze, sort of like rotting garbage. It didn't seem to linger for long, so we didn't pay too much attention to it, but it popped up often enough to make us wonder what it was. Unfortunately, we found out. As we were gathering up our towels and beach bags to head back to the theater, we realized we had stationed ourselves within a few feet of a seagull that had apparently perished on the sand and was slowly decomposing atop a pile of sea rocks; the bird's dried-out corpse blended in so perfectly with the stones we hadn't noticed it at all.
Another piece of good advice: If you make a spur-of-the-moment trip to the beach, look twice before you set down your towel.
That was my situation Saturday. I had spent the morning doing the usual handouts of This Week to ferry passengers in Oak Bluffs, a duty I often complain about but one which sometimes offers some amusement. On this particular morning, I was wondering if Martha's Vineyard is some sort of Elephants' Graveyard for troubled marriages since I kept bumping into couples that were clearly headed for the rocks. There was the prickly pair who were obviously looking for an excuse to argue as they walked along Circuit Avenue.
She: What are you looking at?
He: Don't you want lunch?
She: Why are you stopping?
He: I was looking at the menu.
She: At what?
He (pointing to a menu displayed in a restaurant window): The menu. They've got a menu! I was trying to read it. God -- anything?!
She: What's that supposed to mean?!
It was like "Revolutionary Road" with sunblock.
Then there was the French family getting ready to board the ferry. They had a deluxe bike towing one of those little tents-on-wheels for their toddler. But Daddy had the bright idea of loading a couple of heavy backpacks on top of the little tent, which caused it to topple over on its side, prompting a tantrum from Maman (thankfully, the baby was not in the tent at the time). To make matters worse, the accident happened in plain view of at least a dozen other would-be passengers and Maman was so busy scolding Dad that she stepped away from her son, who, perhaps to distance himself from the shouting, started to walk into the crosswalk.
"Regarde le bebe!" Daddy shouted in alarm, as a pedestrian reached down to stop the baby from fleeing the scene. Maman, who had been busy screaming choice insults such as "cochon!" (pig!) at Daddy, whipped around and grabbed the kid. Then it was Daddy's turn to do the name-calling. I would be happy to translate the rest of the confrontation, but unfortunately they started bickering so quickly I couldn't keep up; suffice to say, the ferry trip was not going to be smooth sailing.
Anyhow, a few hours later I was back at Oak Bluffs for a few pleasant hours on the sand and in the water, which is now warm enough for comfortable swimming. Heather, one of the four "Volcano" stars, wanted to get some sun before the evening performance and we had a very pleasant break on the beach.
Well, mostly pleasant. Every so often, we noticed this awful smell on the breeze, sort of like rotting garbage. It didn't seem to linger for long, so we didn't pay too much attention to it, but it popped up often enough to make us wonder what it was. Unfortunately, we found out. As we were gathering up our towels and beach bags to head back to the theater, we realized we had stationed ourselves within a few feet of a seagull that had apparently perished on the sand and was slowly decomposing atop a pile of sea rocks; the bird's dried-out corpse blended in so perfectly with the stones we hadn't noticed it at all.
Another piece of good advice: If you make a spur-of-the-moment trip to the beach, look twice before you set down your towel.
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