Cuttyhunk Summer

An old man walks slowly across the weathered landscape of Cuttyhunk. He is a difficult, crusty, and critical man whose only soft spot is his affection for the sea. He walks the small island from end to end every day except for the harshest of winter days. He is a singular man, not unhappy when alone. He has a kinship with the sea and all those who have lived and written its rich history. He has a vast collection of seafaring stories and takes every opportunity to swap stories and legends with his peers on the island. This day he is walking with his granddaughter. She is just thirteen years old and has been sent to live on the island with her grandfather for a month or so over the summer holidays.

Laurel is a cute, bright, young girl. She is verbal and inconsistently adventuresome. She is quite attached to her prickly grandfather in spite of his demeanor. She seems to innately care for him because, in her eyes, he so often appears worried and sad. He is indeed worried. Worried about her. He believes her to be too sheltered, too comfortable, too entitled. Her nine years has been full of activities, material things, and positive responses to her every wish. Naturally, she has no perspective on this. He is intent on drawing her away from the polished, coifed, and marketed life that she already knows. For this reason, he is convinced that she will need to learn something of the other side of life. She will need to approach the real world as he understands it. That will require inner strength and thoughtful reflection. He worries that technology is replacing contact with the real world and that the crutches of clicks and gadgets, instant communications, and packaged answers are leading to a life of frustration and dismay. To him, young people have no choice but to face and embrace this reality if they are to become the stewards of the Earth. They will do it enthusiastically or reluctantly, but they must do it.

He is eager to draw her into an appreciation for nature and in particular the lure of the sea. For him, it is the magic that makes life both mysterious and dependable. Its vastness and many personalities make it magnetic and romantic. Laurel has no such awareness. In an effort to engage her, her grandfather begins every day’s foray across and around the island with a prescription. He tells her, “see what others do not see; learn what others do not learn; and tread lightly on history.” She never asks her grandfather what he means.

Cuttyhunk has a remarkable history though little known. Batholomew Gosnold created a settlement here in 1602 before Jamestown was settled. It lasted just twenty-two days but created a place in history for Cuttyhunk. The island was and is an uneven contour of scrub bushes. Most trees vanished long ago for construction. The spine of the small island is covered with eel grass and thick hedge-like vegetation called American Sea Rocket (Cikale edentula). The sea rocket is a hardy plant often two feet high whose extract has for centuries been used as a homeopathic remedy for all sorts of ailments. In spots, pink and blue hydrangeas grow wild. Elsewhere, wild beach rose and honeysuckles blossom in summer. The shoreline is covered with zostera marina, a common, salt-resistant grass found along the water’s edge. Cuttyhunk is one of a chain of islands known as the Elizabeth Islands. Buzzard’s Bay lies to the west and Vineyard Sound and the Atlantic Ocean to the east. The island has a collection of homes clustered around the small harbor with the quaint name “Cuttyhunk Pond.” Many walking paths crisscross the island in random directions. They seem worn by the wandering more than the purposeful walker. They lead nowhere in particular and, if followed, inevitably lead back to the village and its small pier.

Laurel’s life at home revolves around endless activities, peer pressures, and distractions of a mostly technological sort. She is quite typical of the Twenty-first Century generations. Her time on the island will challenge her to gear down, take in her surroundings, and search for discipline and focus. Her grandfather imagines all of this for her while aware that these are not the lessons that words can teach.

It is their fourth day together and he has recognized her growing impatience with the routine and the long, inactive summer evenings. This day, after the now-familiar charge about seeing, learning, and history, Laurel suggests that they ride bikes instead of walking. Her grandfather balks. He told her the paths are too coarse for bikes. What he really thinks is that instinctively Laurel wants to hasten the pace rather than slow it. He rejects the idea and they set about again on their walk. He extolls the beauty of the day and the snap in the West wind off Buzzard’s Bay. It streaks across the narrow island and whips out to the open sea.

Laurel, out of respect for her grandfather, works at “seeing.” She is making a real effort to see things out at sea. She strains to make out distant objects at the very perimeter of her vision. She thinks about the larger picture of the island. She observes a part of it and then thinks about how that part is connected to other parts that are beyond her view. She is trying to see still more. She also tries to look with detail at the things under her feet and along the path.

As they stroll, Laurel, without a thought, moves out more quickly. The path twists around and begins to lead back toward the village. Just at this point, it passes the very small inlet locally known as Gosnold Pond. There, as Laurel waits for her grandfather to catch up, she looks carefully at what is around her. She notices a pitted, vaguely yellowed, mossy object thinly covered by dirt and stringy weeds. It is large, perhaps a foot by three feet, and has a slightly convex shape. She reaches down and sweeps off what she could. It is etched with words. Though badly deteriorated, she is able to read:

These words were carved into the object deeply enough to have survived. Above the words is the outline of a crude skull.

When Laurel’s grandfather does catch up, she points with some passion to what she has uncovered. He too is intrigued and explains that the object looks like an old whale bone. He offers that such bones were common hundreds of years ago and were sometimes used to mark graves of those with little money. Stone grave markers were typical, but expensive by the measure of the day. The image of a skull was often found decorating headstones in Eighteenth Century New England.

For the first time on Cuttyhunk, her grandfather sees in Laurel an interest sparked by something different. He thinks that he might use this initial enthusiasm to nurture his strategy to draw Laurel into a new awareness of the things around her. He suggests that they sit and look carefully at what they might have missed walking this path the previous days.

As they sit on the trunk of a fallen tree, each of them takes in the detail of the land, the plants, the shore, and the sea. Laurel observes that there is a rather odd pattern of bare spots shaped like a broad U with the open end facing east. It is some twelve feet across the bottom and fifteen or twenty feet up each side. Her grandfather, measuring his words, says, “What do you think could have caused that?” Laurel wonders.

He then said, “Do you think something is buried there?”

Laurel, “Maybe that’s why things aren’t growing right there.”

He mumbles, “Maybe a wall or ruins of a cottage or something bigger?” After another few minutes of silence, the two stand and continue toward the village and their cottage.

With evening upon them, the old man builds a fire in the pit on the patio and the two sit quietly until Laurel asks, “Do you think the whale bone and the funny shape have anything to do with one another?”

“Could be” is the response.

“Do you think that someone really is buried there?”

“Hard to know, but it wouldn’t be the first time that a random grave was found on these islands.”

“Could we take a closer look tomorrow?”

“Sure, but we should take some tools … and tread lightly on history.”

With that, Laurel’s mind is racing to new destinations, and her grandfather feels uplifted to think that her spirit has been kindled and that he now has a vehicle for steering his objectives.

Next morning, Laurel is anything but patient. She presses the old man to gather the tools and start out for the other end of the island. Before they leave the cottage gate, he reiterates, “See what others do not see; learn what others do not learn; and tread lightly on history.” With that impatiently registered, they set off for the southwest corner of the island. As they are walking, the grandfather purposely slows his pace and starts to tell Laurel that the part of the island where they are heading is known as “Gosnold Island.” He speculates that it must once have been an island and that there was a very small channel that cut in from Buzzard’s Bay roughly where they had stopped the day before. Laurel is now listening closely as if already aware that each historical fact might be a clue to what lay ahead for them.

Her grandfather then offers that he has always found it really fascinating that there are so many stories about whaling and pirates and revolutionary intrigue in just this very area of the islands. He asks Laurel, “Do you think all that stuff about history could be true? I wonder what people were like back then? I wonder what kids were like back then?”

That piques Laurel’s interest and she responds, “Yea, what did kids do then or think about then?”

It took an hour, but they were now back at the whalebone and the U-shaped bare spot. It is a hazy day with a very slight wind and fog in the distance. Laurel goes right to the bone marker and removes as much from its surface as she can. It is obvious that it had been scratched into the bone with a sharp instrument a bit crudely. She asks, “Do you really think he is buried here?”

Her grandfather responds, “Somewhere around here. The marker couldn’t have traveled very far. We shouldn’t disturb the grave if it is here.”

Laurel endorses that idea. While curious for sure, she is wimpy about the prospect of bones or worse. She asks, “Is there any way to know who he was?”

“Perhaps. It may take a little detective work. I think I can find some pictures of gravestones on the internet and see if we can place the time of his life. I think I remember reading a story about someone by that name. I’ll check in my library.”

They then turn to the figure of bare spots. He instructs Laurel to pace off the length of each segment. She does that very carefully, counting out loud. They agree to dig a little into one part of the bare spot. Laurel is very careful, removing barely a half shovel full with each effort. The old man offers no help and is quite content with the slow progress. Just inches down, she begins to shovel dark, black-brown decay that her grandfather quickly identifies as wood. He tells her to stop and dig a little where the U changes direction. She does. Again, more decayed wood. This is repeated every four or five feet of the bare spot with the same result. Laurel’s grandfather tells her that he is too old to dig and that she will have to do all the physical work. Laurel is unfazed. She is driven by her curiosity and is thinking about what this could be.

He then suggests that she dig about three feet beyond where the bare spot ended on one of the sides. She isn’t sure why but goes about digging. The hole is deeper, but she struck upon the same stuff. Her grandfather suggests one more hole, another three feet in a line with the others. This hole is deeper still but comes across the same decaying wood bits. All the while, Laurel’s grandfather is drawing a diagram of the bare spots and the holes dug. He tells Laurel that they will study his drawing this evening after dinner. After more than an hour, Laurel has spent her enthusiasm for the digging and is ready to stroll back to the cottage. Her focus has waned at least for now.

That evening, her grandfather goes on the computer and searches: “18^th century gravestones.” Up pops a website that includes many photographs of headstones from New England graveyards. All of those are made of stone and some have the same sort of words on them. Most had dates as well and many had skulls exactly like the one carved in the whale bone. Laurel read the inscriptions and is stymied by a Y-like symbol with a small circle over it where the word “the” ought to be. Her grandfather explains that it was common back then but didn’t know why. They are ready to imagine that Neville Strathclyde had lived around the time of the American Revolution. It could well be that that was why it said “patriot” on the bone marker.

Laurel presses her grandfather about those stories he had alluded to earlier. The ones where he thought maybe he has heard or read about Strathclyde. But he balks at that suggestion and proposes instead that they should think about the other thing they found.

He pulls out the diagram and places it between the two of them. He tells Laurel to connect the dots where the holes were dug. She does. Then he wonders what would happen if she extends the lines along the sides of the U. He says, “Maybe if we dug deeper, the pattern would continue.”

She extends the lines. The result is a long rectangle with the one end open. He then says, “The lines won’t go on forever. Close the sides. Bring the two sides together.”

She curves the end of the lines around until they met. The result is a shape that begins to look like a one way street sign.

The old man is careful not to speculate about what it is or was. He leaves it to Laurel to imagine. She does quickly fathom that it might be a boat. She asks, “But why did the bare spot only reveal the stern?”

“Because the bow must have been buried deeper. With more dirt over the bow, the weeds must have had enough soil to grow.”

That makes sense to Laurel. She wonders out loud, “Do you think that this Neville guy was the captain of this ship?”

The old man makes a quizzical sound that led neither toward nor away from such a notion. He explains instead that the inlet had dried up and that ships were often abandoned and swallowed up by both land and sea over time. Certainly that was the fate of this old ship. They may have discovered all that was left of it, or, much more may lie beneath the soil. He goes on to say that whether or not there is anything left of the substance of the ship, it most assuredly still embodies its history. He claims that it could be uncovered in many different ways. He tells Laurel that she should ask herself if she wants to unearth the history of that vessel. He reminds her that it will require dedication and effort.

She hastily answers, “Sure.” But her grandfather charges her with thinking more about how much it might take and says he will ask again later in the evening, when she had time to consider again her answer. Laurel’s grandfather is keen to prepare dinner for them by deliberately taking time and special pains to draw out the experience. He is, in his mind, setting a marathoner’s pace to the evening and beyond. He is trying to avoid the sprints and spasms of activity that he believes characterize young people and subvert their ability to enjoy life. With dinner over, Laurel rushes to the computer and searches: “Neville Strathclyde.” The computer whispers back, “No Results Found.” It queries, “Do you want to search for Neville?” Laurel flashes back “Yes.” The computer indicates that there were tens of thousands of sites for “Neville.” Laurel’s eager smile turns to resignation. Could this have been what grandfather meant by “dedication and effort?”

With calculated slow motion, Laurel’s grandfather enters the study and is quickly confronted by her complaint that there are too many citations to investigate. He reminds her that there are many different ways to investigate but that history often guards its secrets. He adds that it makes it all the more rewarding when answers are found.

Laurel presses him, “Can you remember where you read about Neville Strathclyde?”

“Well actually I don’t think I read anything exactly about him.”

Laurel wore her disappointment obviously. “Isn’t there some way for us to know what happened? To the ship; to Neville?”

Her grandfather, fearing he had played this too carefully, responds, “Well there is a long and involved story that the old salts here on the island tell of the adventures of some kids who lived back in those times. Maybe you want to hear it.”

Laurel pauses and asks, “Which old salts?”

“Well actually, me.”

“You know the story? Do you really know the story? How do you know the story?” she asks frenetically.

“To tell you the truth, it is the most famous story of this island. One person is responsible for telling it, and when that person becomes too old, the job is handed to another. It has always been told here and I hope it always will be. Six years ago, I was charged with this heavy responsibility. The previous island chronicler handed me the original manuscript of Rose. It is the only copy. It is the only evidence and the key to the adventure. When the last man felt no longer sharp of mind, he told me the whole story three times. If you wish, I will tell you that story.”

“Yes, Yes!”

“But you must remember: see what others do not see; learn what others do not learn; and tread lightly on history. I will begin in the morning and each day you are here, I will share with you one episode of the story that captures the very essence of Cuttyhunk.”

Laurel spent a restless night imagining what kind of story warranted such care in telling. Isn’t there a short version? Could it be about such famous people? Shortly after the sun is up, Laurel is eager to set out. Her grandfather is thrilled with her curiosity and energy. They stop at the cottage doorway and he looked at her. Without a word, Laurel said, “See what others don’t see; learn what others don’t learn; and tread lightly on history.” Grandfather smiles and off they went this time toward the harbor pier. Minutes later, they reach the pier and he gestures that they sit on the bench overlooking the well-sheltered harbor. He begins the tale.

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