A Nantucket holiday

Dave, Jackson (eight-years old at the time) and me, left Provincetown Harbor for a short family vacation. We were heading for Nantucket. We sailed across Cape Cod Bay, sailed wing-on-wing through the Cape Cod Canal and now, with all sail set, jib, main, and mizzen, Arethusa was pulling, leaping forward, crossing Buzzards Bay. This part of our journey would take a couple of hours and so Dave told us the story of the islands that we were passing. We snuggled in the cockpit, taking in the distant views of land.  "Elizabeth, Martha, and Nan were the names of the king's daughters. Elizabeth was kind, generous to the people, giving to the church and so the king gave her the Elizabeth Islands as a gift. Martha was gentle with her mother and helpful to the people of the castle, so the king gave her Martha's Vineyard. But Nan was selfish and spent most of her time looking in the mirror and worrying about herself,  so the king gave her nothing. And that made Nan very mad. So what do you think she did?" Dave asked Jackson. "She took the last island for herself, a daring move. See? Nantucket."  Jackson started laughing, saying he got it, "Nan took it. Nan took it." 

The weather was perfect, winds light. We left Buzzards Bay and entered the terror known as Woods Hole Cut. There are other ways to reach Nantucket Sound, but this one is the shortest. Dave asked Jackson to spot the buoys, point to them, and call out the numbers.  Dave brought the sails in tight. He had a pair of binoculars next to him on the seat and the wheel in his steady hands. He had been through these waters with the Wildflower and with Justin Avellar onboard the Hindu. But this was the first time under full sail. For him it was like winning the Derby. The buoys came up fast, I could see rocks jutting out from just below the surface, only feet away. Jackson called numbers and pointed. I checked the chart book that lay open on my lap and pointed to the number in the book.  My heart was racing. The narrow passage seemed to be littered with markers, signs, and buoys, never mind the rocks and the boats moving in all directions. Dave had a big grin on his face. He was showing us that all we had to do was be prepared and pay attention. He steered the boat as if he was driving the Indie 500. And he had it all under control. On the other hand, I felt wild and not the least bit in control, a mixture of happiness and fear, blood pumping as if I'd jogged a mile, and yet exhilarated.  Dave adjusted the wheel, looked around, bending his body to see under the sail, checking the area around us. I could feel the confidence that radiated from him. We passed the NOAA buildings, The Wood's Hole Institute, and the ferry docks. Across Nantucket Sound I could see the low lying island of Martha's Vineyard. After passing the marker on the other side of the Woods Hole Channel, we fell off the wind to port, and began a steady sail up the sound to Nantucket Island. I could just make out a shadow on the horizon, our destination.  I'm a Jersey girl, brought up on lakes and ponds, so coming into Nantucket Harbor for the first time is enchanting.  And coming into the harbor under full sail is absolutely thrilling, a once in a lifetime experience. We sailed between the two rock breakwaters that stood out from beneath the water. The entrance is narrow. I  realized right away how small the harbor was, not wide and open like Provincetown Harbor.  Looking as if he'd been doing this all his life, Dave brought the boat up into the wind, let go the jib sheet, ran forward, dropped the mainsail, picked up the gaff and then picked up a mooring line from a white ball - all in one smooth move. He set the mooring warp over the bow cleat. Arethusa slowed its forward motion, fetched up and lay still. Beneath his dark beard, Dave's smile was a joy to behold, like he'd just won the Bermuda Cup. "Holy Moly!" was all I could say. "Smooth move, dad," Jackson added. We were folding the sails onto the boom when a boat came alongside driven by a man in a uniform. "That was quite a sight," he said. "Picking up the mooring was a nice maneuver, but I'm sorry you can't stay there, it's a private mooring." Dave thanked him, said we would move, and started up the engine. The Harbormaster, whose name was also Dave, said, "I watched you come in. Not many sailors would be capable of that little trick. Have you been sailing long?" I laughed when my husband replied that we bought the boat two months ago in Maine. They started talking about fishing and the Harbormaster told us to follow him. "I'll put you on a mooring closer to the wharf." He gave us a key to the showers and told us it cost $10.00 per night. "Stay as long as you like." Nantucket is one beautiful island with a history that dates to 1659. We enjoyed two glorious days exploring the streets, shops, and harbor before setting sail and making the return journey. Once we were back home I admitted to Dave that I was getting to like this thing called sailing.