I have really been surprised by how much I am taken by Marblehead, after my first year. The town's powerful grip on my soul seems to stem from my boyhood days on Chappaquiddick. I think what's going on are all my recollections of those summers on that island which are flooding back in to my being, being re-created in this enduring sea port. A deep rooted genetic imprint, descending from my grandmother's arrival there in 1916 when they drove the cattle across the gap from Edgartown to the 'otherland' because, once there, you are quite removed from the press of clockwork life. There is a certain comfort, deriving from the detachment from the rest of the world that I am discovering in Marblehead. And it is reinforced, because most of the people we meet share this precious, silent 'island' secret.
But change is afoot. The complexion of the harbor from summer to fall, the deep blues of the water and the ascendency of forceful winds, heralding the onset of stormy gales. The vessels are melting away from the harbor, the lake-like waters, yielding to a rippled quilt, sensing whitecaps soon to appear.
The low autumn raking sun illuminates the remaining hulls and homes on the Neck at sunset. Remaining leaves textured orange and yellow roar in angry rebellion to the unrelenting fall winds. The season's sharp turn from soft summer seas to the tempestuous fall bluster of wailing leaves leaves no doubt that winter is fast upon us. Shudder!
But I remember this is why I have come to live here. One must be brave in the face of the freeze. Aloft are the leaves, scurrying about in place of the gulls. The boats no longer sit at anchor, but swing about in desperate attempts to await their salvation - I know by Nov 1, that magic date, they will all be gone, save the five working boats of lonely hard working lobstermen.
It seems a time away - the magic of summer's onset is the quiet disappearance of wind and the transformation of rough waters into lake like stillness. It is sudden and totally unexpected. For nine months the winds toll at 15 knots or better, and then collapse to a mere wisp upon a pond. The tragic historic tales of men lost at sea are replaced by the vigorous vanquishing of competitive sailors. There is no doubt that Marblehead is a counterpoint of waters, undulating between the bright and the dark.
Now I am wondering when we will make our first fire. I think it will be tonight. Why not? The seasons are changing.
