25 Bank.

It was Nine A.M. and already four hours already into my day. I hadn’t had a single cup of coffee yet by the time we’d arrived to Nantucket and I still feel at liberty to brood away about it.

It’s been raining all morning. Not a heavy rain like in Miami. There, the rain falls hard and you can see the thunderheads looming in the distance. They slowly trample their way through the flightpaths of Herons, Parrots, and a hell of an ego that tends to float whenever I’m down tanning on the beach listening to bands I would’ve only heard attending a private university in the East Village.

Here, it felt like some little prick was spitting on you. It wasn’t big, chunky, phlegmy spit either mind you, it was probably closer to the kinda spit a kid spits when he’s been munching on Nerds or Twizzlers all day- you know the type, really sticky and wet and scarce? The humidity kills and makes the rain seep into you without drying.

Because the skies were gray there wasn’t really much to look out for yet.

We drove 8 miles East from the port of Nantucket to an area known as Siasconset. From there we drove down the cliffs of the main town to a smaller community known as ‘Codfish Park’, which sits at maximum three hundred feet from the water.

The cottage is tiny. The tile is sprinkled with sand and the wood is scorching up my nostrils with the smell of Pine. All the furniture you could want is in here but it’s all cramped; between the four of us we take turns letting one another go around into the kitchen. Glass bottles of Cobalt Blue line the shelves. Mats of woven straw serve as the window drapes. Out on the patio there’s a shower with hot water and next to that- a patch of crushed shells that serves as the resting ground for our bikes and the silhouettes of blooming hibiscus. The crashing waves of the North Atlantic sound like the last bit of fizz to bubble off the surface of a cool glass of Sprite. There’s also the cackling of Laughing Gulls and the calling cards of the Tufted Titmouse.

Hungry to the pit of my stomach I indulged on a Siasconset blueberry muffin. A crackling crust of sugar broke its own ground, exposing the interior of a muffin top that was compressed with a moist and buttery dough soaked in blue hue, warm blueberries dripping with juice and breadcrumb, and tinier chunks of sugar that rolled on my tongue until I finally devoured them.

Now, I am off to the beach. I saw a seal poke his head out of the water earlier today.  I’m forecasting briefer posts over the next week- my fingers refuse to move against the breeze.

Tonight, we feast of Lobster-stuffed salmon, barbecued corn, and cherries.

 

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