Neverland
by Robert P. Barsanti
For the first time in forever, we have rented a house on island for two weeks. The decision came out of the blue, on the wings of logic and consideration, and promptly came to perch on the brim of my hat. There would be a place for guests. There would be a place to have barbecues. There would be privacy and room. As much as it transformed me into a summer person for two weeks, I surrendered to the obvious convenience and found a suitable place in the woods near the airport, wrote the check, and can now look at the island with another set of sunglasses on.
It's quite a thing to find yourself a tourist. I wear funny clothes, pick-up houseguests at the boat, and plan barbeques. Since it is not my house, I don't have the same worry and concern. When the toilet was running and the ants were marching, we made a phone call, packed a sandwich and went to the beach. The dishwasher whines, the broiler is a mystery, and the wicker sofa groans and sags in surrender each time I sit on it. But, in two weeks, we will clean up, return the key, and let the quirks of a summer house move on to the next guests.
The house allowed me to bring my brother back to the island. He came for the Fourth of July, passed on the water fight, settled into the sand at Cisco, and immersed himself in our commonplace luxuries. He wasn't in Philadelphia and he wasn't on the Jersey Shore. He could dig his toes into the sand, dive into the waves, and have a blueberry lemonade on the way home. He eventually relearned how to pass through the five-way stop, how to call ahead for a reservation, and how to walk the beach in the morning.
Which is when he found the Figawi Junior Varsity party. The police were doing what they could with sawhorses, trash bags, cruisers. Officer Tornovish checked ID's and packages at the door. But teen spirit is what it always has been. The Lost Boys came up the beach, the party grew to a mob, then everyone stared at each other and said "It was better last year." Then, 24 hours later, all that remained were beer cans, trash bags, and a lingering fog of entitlement.
For my brother and many of the visitors, we live in a sandy Neverland. The beaches never change, the cobblestones never change, and the people never change. A land in which my brother can leave his house, walk to a beach at noon, and then walk back for an afternoon snack is a good land. The beach he walks is open, unfenced, and clean, as was the beach that the Lost Boys partied on. However the island doesn't run on pixie dust or good wishes. Those beaches stay clean as a result of altruistic do-gooders on the Clean Team, the taxpayer funded Department of Public Works, and the basic good sense of most beach goers.
Peter Pan doesn't have that good sense. The world's only perpetual boy is protected by Tinkerbelle, and Wendy does his spring cleaning. The boys in Neverland never grow older, the trees don't get bigger, and the trash disappears. Peter flies through London and Neverland disconnected from people and time. When Tinkerbelle get sick (sacrificing her life because Peter won't listen), he saves her with applause.
No one was applauding on the South Shore on the fourth of July. Wendy didn't tell any stories, she blacked out on the beach and needed the EMT's to bring her back from the cold and black Neverland. The emergency room was filled with the the burned, the stoned, and the drunk. None of the nurses were clapping.
Peter Pan isn't constrained to the the young on the beach on the Fourth of July. He flies everywhere. He can drive a black Range Rover, barrel down the dirt roads, and park on a sand dune. He can drive a pick-up truck and dump paint in the moors. Peter Pan doesn't care what others think. He doesn't care about Tinkerbelle, about the Darling parents, or even about Wendy. He leads a flying life, disconnected from the ground and from time.
Living on Nantucket, even for a weekend, is to be connected to everyone and everything around you. The guy you cut off in traffic is the guy who will be standing at Cisco Brewers later. The beer can you drop on the beach is the one your neighbor will pick up later. In only one way, Nantucket is Neverland: people never want to leave. And, when they do leave, they find ways of coming back. I found myself shaking hands with a co-worker I hadn't seen in twenty years the other night. He lives in Arizona, he came to the island for the weekend, and was appropriately stunned at being recognized.
But, that is what we do out here. Nantucket recognizes. It remembers how you treated the beaches, the neighbors, and the rental houses. The Figawi Junior Varsity thought they were an anonymous mob dropped on a beach by pixie dust. But they were seen, they were known, and they left a mark. Those that cleaned up after them were also recognized.
We are all here for a short time, anyway. The time could be measured in hours, days, or decades, but eventually we have to turn in the keys and the island moves on to someone else. Whoever moves in next will recognize what we have done. Have we fixed the sofa? Have we cleaned up the trash? Have we left it better than we found it?
