Wednesday: June 27
The Nasuet Beach Club was extraordinary. Pistachio encrusted rack of lamb, and this time a far-underpriced, terrific Turley Zinfandel. When we walked in the hostess said, “Hello, welcome!” Now that’s my kind of place. Ended the evening with a Dominican Cohiba.
Our seagull artist, Jerry, has directions to our house and will bring the piece on Saturday on his way to the Wooden Boat Show in Mystic. “I was going to give you 10% off,” he said, “but what if I left it at full price and, in return, installed it for you? Unless you’d rather do the digging and cementing yourself?”
As much as I love doing cement work, I decided I’d allow him to take care of it. Didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
I’ve begun “Stalin’s Ghost” by Martin Cruz Smith (who won awards with “Gorky Park” years ago) to alternate with “Einstein” at the beach. Fabulous writing, clever plot, but it makes you realize that Miasma would be a more attractive place to be than Moscow. It’s tough to be capitalistic when there is neither the tradition nor ethical basis for it.
Off to Nasuet Beach today, by far the largest thus far, a tad reminiscent of the Jersey Shore (all others have beaches, Jersey has a “shore”). There is a clam shack that sells everything from lobster chowder and hot dogs to calamari and chicken parm. This is true ocean beach, though it’s hard to get accustomed to “coves” here, where the water stretches to the visible horizon. We’re talking the Godzilla of an inlet. (Trivia point: Godzilla was not Japanese, but was born in the Marshall Islands, a U.S. protectorate. Ravaging Tokyo is a metaphor for the atomic bombs.)
The rides to the beach are along two-lane blacktops, a canopy of trees overhead, songbirds warbling alongside the open convertible. There is no traffic to speak of. The beach gatekeepers seem bemused at the thought of anyone paying $15 to park for the day. I feel as if you should need a passport to be here. It’s sufficiently New England to be charmingly independent, but not so far north (viz.: Maine) where the locals tend to hate you! (Send your letters to the site administrator.)
The sleepy boatyard, which also bills itself as a “marine railway,” hauled a large boat out of the water while we were away, using some kind of winch and tracks. I said to Jerry that it seemed to be a burst of activity. “Oh, things get done when they have to,” he informed me. My impression was that the boat owner called to say he was on the way to The Cape.
There is, apparently, an accessory called a “fanny pack” I’m observing on Main Street here. I’ve long maintained that no one above the age of 14 and/or size 4 should have anything written on their rear end. I’ve since observed that no one–and that includes Jennifer Lopez, Cindy Crawford, and Haile Berry–is enhanced by wearing something on their rear end.
A great day on Nasuet Beach, temperature in the 80s, soft breeze, bracing water.