Past the pier, there was a smooth section of sand used to store a myriad of colorful sunfish, sailfish, and dinghies, with all boats intentionally overturned to prevent an accumulation of sand or rain. Corresponding sets of wooden oars were safely tucked beneath each boat.
The beach, which overlooked Phinney’s Harbor, would become my happy place for years and years to come. Its location, on the Leeward Road side of the island, enjoyed less wind and calmer waters than the “ocean” side of the island. As such, it offered perfect conditions for the many motorboats towing water skiers, as well as for fishermen hoping to bring home bass or blue fish or summer flounder for supper. It was also ideal for those picturesque sailboats, bobbing gently as they either navigated their way toward Memorial Beach just across the bay, or past the rock pile marking safe passage to the open ocean.
It was roughly a mile’s boat ride across Phinney’s Harbor to Memorial Beach, which was a similar waterfront community. For us, the lure of Memorial Beach included a snack bar, two gas pumps marked “MGO” (Marine Gas Only) for boats, but most notably, a host of young, sexy, flirtatious, and dare I say “fast” teenage girls, along with their ever-prickly, ready-to-rumble boyfriends. Over the years, as our interest in these girls climbed, so did their boyfriends’ rancid hatred for all things Mashnee, including all the teens who lived there.
Slightly to the right of Mashnee beach was a small stone pier, jutting out toward a large yellow dock. The dock offered boaters rest or respite, as they picked up or unloaded sun-drenched passengers and coolers of beer.
Traversing the outer border of the clubhouse complex property was a two-lane, concrete shuffleboard court, framed on either side by single spectator benches. The benches, painted in streaky gobs of a nautical blue, attempted to match the clubhouse trim.
Tall switchgrass grew abundantly around the shuffleboard court, which I’d eventually learn would make for a prime make-out spot (better check for ticks!), once the synchronized overhead lights timed out. The farther you went down that side of the beach, once you passed the shuffleboard courts, the rockier and less traveled it became, but we could traverse it blindfolded.
There was just so much happening all the time on Mashnee!
On the way back to the cottage with my sister and cousins that first morning, I took off my sneakers and promptly stubbed my big toe. It bled like crazy. I didn’t care. Man, this place was great.
Over time, I would explore and lay claim to every square inch of the Island, while it, in turn, laid claim to me.
Chapter 4
Slugger
Back at the cottage I met my first Mashnee friend. I was in the backyard tossing up and hitting wiffle balls, including the previously dented ones, and attempting to catch them in mid-flight for an imaginary “out,” when I heard someone calling from the street behind.
“Hey,” he said, “you like baseball?”
I looked across the somewhat-trampled green yard behind ours, where a boy about my age stood at the edge of our neighbor’s yard. He gave me a quick wave and half nod and continued, “Hey. I’m Dereck. Dereck Shifter.”
“Hi,” I replied, feeling a bit sheepish and out of my comfort zone. “I’m Jimmy, Jimmy Rocket, but everyone calls me Jimmyrocket. I know it sounds kinda funny but it’s all one word…long story… Anyway, we just got here.”
Dereck cut through the neighbor’s yard and approached. He looked around my age, but he was several inches taller than me. He had white-blond hair and bright green eyes set behind heavy black-framed glasses. He was an athletically built kid and walked with confidence.
Dereck looked nice enough, and he was wearing a baseball mitt, which definitely registered in my brain under: “Yes! Baseball!”
I couldn’t help but notice that Dereck was wearing white athletic socks, stretched up far beyond any reasonable maximum height allowable by law, flirting with his kneecaps. Competing for attention were the bands of bright yellow and green stripes running across the top of each sock, as if in a showing of solidarity.
Now, I may have been only ten years old, but I had an older sister, not to mention two older cousins, all three fashionable and quite groovy (there I said it), and I therefore knew without a doubt that Dereck’s questionable fashion statement represented grounds for immediate banishment. But I kept those thoughts to myself for now; after all, like I said, the kid had a baseball glove!
As he approached, there was another boy, darker haired, and slightly younger-looking, waiting back at the street. He was fidgeting restlessly, rocking back and forth from foot to foot while holding a wooden bat. To me he looked either anxious to pee (like a racehorse!) or to momentarily take flight.
Dereck asked, “You wanna go take some grounders at the ballfield?”
“My brother, Jackie Junior, has a bat,” he continued, gesturing toward the dark-haired kid behind him. Surprisingly Jackie had neither left nor fainted and was still holding up a wooden bat.
“It’s a Louisville Slugger,” Derrick pointed out.
“Sounds great! Gimme a minute to grab my glove, and let’s go!”
I ran back into the cottage, grabbed my baseball glove and galloped back out the door, just as my mother caught a glimpse of me streaking through the yard.
“Where are you going, hon?” my always-inquisitive mother called to me.
“To the ballfield, Mom. I’ll be home in an hour!” (Which turned into three.)
“Ok, don’t get hurt or anything,” she cautioned embarrassingly. Do moms ever realize they do this embarrassing stuff?
We then met up with Dereck’s twin brothers, Ernie and Steve, who pleasantly enough nodded hello, and on “one-two-three-loser-plays-catcher” we raced to the ballfield. Dereck and his brothers turned out to be lightning fast.
But I won.
By a lot.
Have I mentioned I’m a runner?
We arrived to see there were other kids already at the field. They ranged in age and ability, and I fit right in. A much older kid, Ronny Parker, with dark curly locks of hair atop a friendly looking face, asked me what position I liked, and without actually responding, I just hustled out to shortstop.
The field of players continued to increase in numbers and diversity. A bunch of the kids were in their early to late teens, while others were as young as five or six.
A couple of the older kids were amazing ballplayers, and the few dads who participated were spearheaded by my Uncle Ted, who managed to keep things somewhat organized.
Next to me, playing third base most of the time, was a kid probably two years my senior. He had long, curly, shaggy-dog-style hair, and a hugely contagious wide smile featuring bright white teeth. He was playing what he called “loosey-goosey,” scooping up every hard hit grounder, doing a funny little jig, sometimes nodding kiddingly at me, then firing absolute missles to the first baseman. I’d never seen anyone so good.
He later introduced himself as Bruce Fontaine. Turned out he was in fact two years older, and his family had a sprawling ranch-style home on Captains Row, the “rich” part of the island. Fun kid. His was THE party-hearty family!
I did much to hold my own that day. I fielded everything that came my way, got a few hits (Uncle Ted pitched for both squads.), and outran everything in sight. On two occasions, much to the delight of the older boys who yipped and hollered, I turned routine outfielders’ misplays into “inside-the-park” home runs! Best of all, thanks to fast reflexes and a terrifying fear of permanent disfigurement, not a single ball did I take off the kisser. Not that day, not any day. Not bad for a ten-year-old pipsqueak breaking into the majors.
It just might have been the best day of my life!
Chapter 5
