I got up early to meet Laura, David, and his friends Liz and John W near the waterfront. Liz is tall, friendly and performs traditional Scottish dance; John W is a sharp and wildly strong rock climber and programmer. We arrived at the ticket booth and discovered that our intended ferry was sold out, so we lollygagged about in a tree until the later one was ready to go. The original plan was to take an initial boat to Georges Island, briefly tour the old fort there, and then take a second ferry to Spectacle Island and camp out for the night. We eventually boarded and took seats on the top deck. An exceedingly flat announcer went into a monologue about the history of the waterfront and seaport, but I tuned him out after he corrected himself two or three times. At this point, I realized I was ravenously hungry, so I headed down to the concession stand to purchase a hot dog. There, I had another of those strange "whoa, I can drink!" moments, looking over the selection of alcohol intended for long-suffering parents.
In time, we reached Georges Island. The five of us went for a walk around the island, exploring the fort. It also served as a prison, quarantine, and school before finally being shuttered. The fort was designed with a two-tier defense system, constructed with formidable blocks of stone, and surrounded by a deep, dry moat. Most of the cannons are long gone and moss is creeping up the walls, but it's still plain how insane it would have been to storm it. John climbed up into a window; I took pictures from the top of a crumbling chimney; Laura went into Mom Mode when Liz got a small cut; and we delved into a pitch-dark chamber that should probably be sealed off. We did our best to keep our camping gear incognito, but were asked about it by more than one friendly park ranger.
Sean eventually showed up on another boat, followed by David's friends Jeremy, Angie, and Chris. Jeremy is a boisterous, funny long-hair; Angie is his friendly, generally quiet girlfriend; and Chris is their solemn but equally amusing buddy. We decided that Spectacle Island was not our best camping option, since it sees the heaviest traffic among the islands and some event was in progress there, and settled on Peddocks Island instead. After missing a few boats off Georges, we waited in a long line to ensure that we caught the next one. Everyone played Drug Dealer, skipped stones, and got to know each other.
The ferry over to Peddocks was the most stressful period of the trip. Our research indicated that camping was available by prior reservation only (also true of the coveted yurts on Spectacle), and our "game plan" was simply to play it stupid and assume that kicking us off the island would be too much trouble for the park service. I guess I'm a pretty paranoid guy, and my heart was in my throat when we disembarked and were instructed to follow an unusually cheery ranger. (I mean, this guy's cheeriness was nearing bizarre levels. It was like something out of a Saturday morning cartoon.) Dave shot me a reassuring look, and the nine of us proceeded to the check-in desk. I was prepared to fight over the reservation status, but instead: "Oh, they're walk-ins. That's great! That'll be $6 for a site. You can set up anywhere along that road up there. Have fun!" They even told us that we could have a beach fire!
The "site" turned out to be a long expanse of grass up on a ridge, and we were mostly alone on the island. A few other groups of campers appeared in the periphery, but for the most part, it was peaceful and solitary as we made camp. David, Jeremy and I applied our Scouting experience to rig up the tents at extreme speed. We sat on blankets and towels and shared picnic food while debating exactly what to do next. Everyone watered up at the ranger station near the pier; Sean used a perfectly agreeable composting toilet, while John W was stuck in one that stank like a dead animal; and after he was finished choking, I had a swordfight with John W atop a crumbling wall.
We wandered up and down a stony beach for a while, finding interesting refuse along the way. Highlights: a rusted radiator; an engine. I got angry at how much crap people had left behind and started to collect trash in a discarded bucket. This side of the island faced Boston, and we were gifted with an unbelievably beautiful sunset that changed the distant skyline into a dreamlike landscape on the horizon. Soon, we busied ourselves gathering fallen wood and building a bonfire above the waterline. I found a full, dead tree among the underbrush farther away from the shore and tipped it down on to the beach; it slammed into the ground, flipped over lengthwise, and levered off a branch that flew thirty or forty feet and into the water. The sky had been threatening us with rain all day; near last light, a beam of golden sunshine set the Prudential aglow through a single break in the cloud cover, as if God and all His angels were about to descend to earth.
It did not rain then, and aside from a brief and minimal sprinkle after dark, it did not rain at all. That seemed to make everything better, because we didn't take the cool, clear evening for granted. I imagined Mother Nature whispering, "I could destroy your fun, but I won't." Thus, a busy -- albeit fun -- day turned into an almost mystical evening. The beach was mildly concave, and when the sun went down, other groups dotted the length of it with signal fires. Despite the murky sky, Boston was lit up like a Christmas tree, and for a time, I just sat and looked at the lights. Being so far away, physically, seems to give some mental perspective as well. I thought about things as important as my career and had musings as mundane as, "No one could have enjoyed this view until the advent of cheap electricity." Fenway Park threw its brilliant white cast over the skyline, and to our right, we could make out the lights from the Revere carnival.
When the first of the fireworks went up over Revere, everyone went quiet. We enjoyed the show from a much better place than some patch of grass next to a fried dough cart or behind a pack of screaming kids. We could faintly hear the music as well, and when the carnival finally shuttered for the night, a party boat with booming bass relieved them. Another, smaller boat prowled the water off Peddocks and occasionally launched its own fireworks. When things got low-key again, David noticed something that legitimately seemed like magic: multitudes of tiny organisms in the water, glowing blue with bioluminescence and washing in and out of the rocks. All I could think about was how good it felt to be alive.
[My friend and ex-girlfriend Jo Ann is working on her senior thesis, an art project on the concept of loss that is reliant on public participation. I wrote this paragraph as part of that, and if you're interested in helping her as well, please see my facebook page.] It was strange that this would come to mind on one of the happiest nights of my life. I lost one of my closest friends two years ago – not to death or distance, nothing so insurmountable, but simply to apathy and misunderstanding. I walked away from my friends and our campfire on the shore and picked up a stone. It was smooth, flat, and fit comfortably in my hand, like our friendship before the vagaries of college got in the way. The water was frigid, but I let the Atlantic swirl around my ankles, numb my feet, clear my mind. I stood there for a long time, found peace, and hucked the stone. It skipped once, sliced into a wave and was gone. You will never read this, but I say to you: It was good while it lasted. Goodbye. Goodbye.
We passed around ratchet drinks in water and soda bottles, a few of us smoked, and conversation flowed like water. We skipped stones, sang campfire songs, and not to be outdone by the carnival or boat people, we fired off our own assortment of pyrotechnics before hoofing it. When we reached camp, I hit the sack almost immediately.
Quotes of the day:
"I'm not a safe sleeper." - Laura
"Yeah! Take that, science!" - John W
"Do or do not. There is no try, bitch." - the Delivery Man
"My investments are accruing interest." - John W
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