The Nantucket of My Heart
By Jack Comeau
The Nantucket of my heart doesn’t emerge until way after Labor Day. As Halloween nears, the real Nantucket awakes. As the multi-tone mottle of grey, November, clouds and a stiff wind hints at the coming winter and whips up a stiff chop in Nantucket sound, now the island reaches into my soul.
I am transported back centuries. I can close my eyes and hear the strain of thick hemp dock lines holding sailing ships at bay as if they were anxious race horses. He can hear the creak of wooden hulls, the wind through the ratlines. I can smell the tar that caulks the hulls and the sweet scent of whale oil as it dances soft flames to lick the edges of street lamp glass as night starts to fall.
I walk the now empty cobblestones up towards the Pacific National Bank, listening to the tiny bell tinkle of dry leaves being chased before fall's bluster. I wrap my coat tighter as the chilled air starts to penetrate my bones and swirls through my nostrils with scents of wood fire and chestnuts.
This is the real Nantucket, the one that sleeps through summer, waiting for now to reclaim herself The Nantucket of my heart.
Jack Comeau is also the author of the Nantucket based, seagoing, romantic novel: