It was two days before the 4th of July and New England was sweltering. A perfect time to seek an ocean breeze, and I was off for a much-anticipated weekend meetup with my extended family from Maryland. Taking the long but scenic shortcut, I hopped the ferry from Connecticut to Block Island driving my trusty Red VW and matching paint pants.
The Island was a place I knew almost nothing about except the locals were mad as hell as rumors circulated in the salty breeze about a huge atom crunching beehive of a power plant that might be built, and it was too close for comfort on their sandy of slice of paradise. The ferry was delayed for hours as a group of men tried to figure out what to do about an old pickup truck carrying pots of bright red flowers that had broken loose and was hanging dangerously over the rusty boat deck. Being from a landlocked town in Texas this was all new to me. An oddly beautiful and choregraphed moment as the waves rocked over Long Island sound creating a stage like set ready for the actors to take their places.
As if on que, a big red Cadillac convertible of the same vintage as the one was JFK was riding in Dallas came slowly cruising down the incline to wait in the long line for the ferry to Sag Harbor. The top was down and two women sat on the backs of the rear seats as the driver, wearing a pricy cowboy hat reached forward and cranked up the music, eight track no doubt, blasting away with the greatest hits of the Grand Ole Opera and some funky blues songs.
The quiet drama of this blink in time had been set in motion by what seemed like a magic power. Finally, the odd processional of cars in waiting started their engines in unison and edged onto the ferry as she creaked and moaned under the weight for yet another trip to the other side. It was an aging and battered boat moving gently in the water, swimming at a snail’s pace and making billows of smoke in a beautiful steady plume. On board it smelled like saltwater taffy mixed with whiffs of perfume and diesel fuel.
As a graceful apology might go, the driver of the pickup made rounds offering all the women on the boat deck a fiery red rose. The mood was cheery, the boat engine hummed, the sun was setting and people sang along with the blues as if they knew each song by heart…
In loving memory of Uncle Paul Glass, a pediatrician, talented artist, gracious host and someone who offered his unconditional support of my dream to become a visual artist. And he had great straw hats for everyone attending the bash.