Solitude without loneliness?
Whimsical power without explanation?
Or perhaps…
The polar opposite,
Pain without recourse?
Dread without solution?
Despair without foundation?
The Island calls to you, but do you hear?
The Island speaks to you, but will you listen?
Or are you too trapped in self,
To notice,
It’s trying to save you.
Chapter 24
Return
Finally, like a well-worn baseball glove, lying stiff and dormant in a box of toys and games hastily stored in the attic, impatiently waiting for the weather to warm, its familiar cowhide, which long ago memorized every print, crease, nook and cranny on your hand, anxious to soften and supple and rejuvenate. To rise from its winter slumber. To awaken and share the familiar smell of linseed oil, as it longs for the feel of the first hardball slamming into its palm and rolling safely into the frayed webbing!
Then wham bam, thank you, ma’am, just like that:
The summer returns, as summers are want to do.
Welcomed with open arms and racing hearts.
This one, promising to be The Greatest Summer Ever!
The summer of 1970 was different from the get go. For starters, Alison had her driver’s license and access to my mom’s car. Like good access! The fact that she was terrified to drive was not an issue. That is, as long as she had her trusty fifteen-year-old brother (boatsman certified!) ready, willing, and able to hop into the driver’s seat and take over at a moment’s notice, sans any legal documentation, we were all set. In my absence, her friends did likewise. It’s worth mentioning my mom’s car was a hipper-than-hip, sporty, white, Chevy Camaro convertible with front bucket seats and a killer stereo system. Life was sweet!
Our first driving challenge came when it was time to cross over the Bourne Bridge. Alison wanted nothing to do with it, so we switched. Those who have been there and done that already know it’s not so easy. First off, who the heck built a bridge so narrow and invented a rotary, anyway? They’re just dumb.
I understand it was part of the initial bridge construction back in the thirties, when there were not many cars on the road, and presumably the intent was simply to keep traffic flowing, instead of an enforced stop-and-go situation when traffic was light. But as far as I could see, in modern day 1970 it only added to the confusion, especially when New Yorkers attempted to join this circuitous circle of death.
My own approach was simple: floor it. This method worked well for the rotary (to the tune of minor tire squeals). It did not work as well for the award-winning bridge, as I may have, very slightly, mind you, kissed the right front bumper against the bridge’s slightly raised, (and insanely enough, completely unprotected from traffic) six-foot-wide, solid granite pedestrian sidewalk, whilst maneuvering the jettison from the rotary onto the bridge’s ridiculously narrow lanes, (which left about an eighth of an inch margin for error). Otherwise, however, I was perfect.
Being young and driving fast across the causeway with the top down and the radio blasting the Rolling Stones wailing “19th Nervous Breakdown,” “Jumpin Jack Flash,” “Honky-Tonk Woman,” “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” along with about a zillion other of my personal favorites was, perhaps, the most joyously free feeling I’d ever had. I could do it blindfolded. In fact, I may have.
Of course we switched back to our original driving positions before arriving on the island, then immediately stopped by our cousins’ house, before heading for The Club.
Pulling into the parking lot we immediately noticed several cosmetic changes. Not only had The Club and pool area been repainted, but the pool area had now been completely surrounded by a tall Plexiglass windbreak, probably to extend the number of days the pool could still be comfortably used once the weather started to change. Or maybe they just wanted to stop some of the sand from blowing into the pool. It didn’t matter. We instantly hated it, of course.
Truth is, we unanimously detested any changes to Mashnee whatsoever.
The next thing we noticed was that a large covered porch and open deck had been added to the side of the building, adjacent to and with access from, the second floor Boat ’n Bottle Bar. (Ok, that actually may have been a pretty good idea.)
The downstairs grille area, famous for the Weenie Roast, had also been covered with a white, cheap plastic canopy (It lasted precisely one summer before needing replacement.), offering only the slightest protection from any wind-blown rain. Everything else though looked unaltered. Absolutely perfect…
Within the next two days I had reunited with most my pals, each meeting met with a mixture of excitement and relief, as I high fived each of the guys while mentally checking off my summer roster of best friends:
Brian
Rick
The Flaherty Brothers
Stevie
And on the first day at the pool I met a new kid, Tommy Bourdon, a couple of years older than me and by far the toughest kid I had ever met in my life. He came complete with a theatrically thick scar (He even had a cool scar?) over his right eye and a wise-ass, edgy personality. He had bicep muscles the size of Popeye’s, which when flexed, looked like matching cannonballs shooting out of his arm. His voice was a cackle. He was battle tested, street wise and fearless. He would become, for a short period anyway, my very good friend and the self-appointed leader of our band of brothers. The kid was right out of West Side Story, rough, tough and coolly-cool, boy!
He was arguing with the pool’s lifeguard about his pool pass (Apparently there was an issue related to his entrance.), as I was walking in, I casually wandered up and told them to let him in; that he was my guest. After an exaggerated roll of eyeballs, they acquiesced. The two of us really hit it off, and when we were done swimming, and looking around for pretty girls (I understood he was a real chick magnet), he took me for a ride in his kick-ass car! Fastest thing I’d ever been in. Sure, I was supposed to get permission from my folks, but who cared.
Know who else was there? The one and only Crazy Eddie O’Connor, that’s who. Naturally, he faked a high-five and immediately threw me over the hedges.
Mother. Frucker.
Later that day I was riding my red Schwinn bike to Gray Gables market to buy a box of ping-pong balls, because the game room’s supply had dwindled to five barely usable cracked ones, which, according to the lovely Betty O’Connor, was “Your own damn fault for hitting them against the cement walls, morons! Fend for yourself. I ain’t buyin ya’s no more this summah!” When I was flagged down by a faded green Pontiac with some older guy driving. Big guy.