Martha's Vineyard A Peasant's Retrospective by Richard S. Collins     A humorous insight into a weekend spent biking and camping Martha's Vineyard.

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Let's be frank, if you're ever entertained the idea of a cheap biking and camping getaway on Martha's Vineyard you're either one of two things: a sadistic adventurer pent on conquering the world single handedly, or just plain poor. I (unfortunately) fall into both categories, though lean much more heavily on the poor side. Attempt to add in 'romantic' to the cheap getaway equation, and you earn the designation of being just plain nuts. The only romance you're likely to encounter is passing out in each other's arms at the end of the day from sheer exhaustion, and the possibility of a brief massage to alleviate the torn and knotted muscles, sore bottoms, and overly-sunburned calves from hours of gliding down endless roads, not carelessly enjoying the fresh air, but desperately requiring it to live as your lungs work overtime from years of aerobic inactivity. At least that applies to some of us.

After all, I'm sure even the most die-hard outdoor enthusiast would entertain the idea of a Cliffside B&B with sweeping Ocean views, gourmet breakfasts from local produce so fresh it's yet unaware it has been separated from the vine, wine from local vineyard grapes breathing peacefully in the Ocean breezes, and warm bubbling spa waters to melt away the tensions of the day. The freedom of empowerment, combined with the experience of exploring the land independently by bike - but with a grand estate to call home and rest weary heads. This, of course, is to come after the inspiring seafood dinner and sunset kiss activities have commenced.

Let me first say that I am a traveler by nature, but one without patience and a blatant hatred of feeling like a tourist (even though I am). I therefore have a unique perspective on life and travel that tends to warrant shock, horror, and sometimes laughter. Unfortunately, on most occasions, this is only in retrospect. During the experiences I tend to be the one other tourists became distracted by due to the flurry of grumbling, and waving, and sometimes even profanities emerging from my clenched lips. These profanities are often directed at inanimate objects such as buses, train schedules, closed buildings, or long lines, which, more times than not, have lead mothers to grasp their children for fear the crazy individual may come too close. Yes, that's me.

Please, however, take note that I have explored the island previously with great success - primarily by realizing that the island is too big to explore in a weekend and must be taken in smaller intervals. With a room. And a bed - preferably one with a mock Galley Hatch window you can peer out onto the street in. Thus you can easily explore each aspect of a smaller area in its entirety, moving on in concentric circles if the desire strikes you, until the maximum explorable area is reached. Sounds scientific doesn't it? Well it's not. It's what normal people do, and what I usually try to do to retain essential sanity and self control. Not this time, we were prepared to 'do the Village' the rustic way - cover as much of the island as possible - on bikes - in one single weekend - even if it killed us. And it almost did.

Let us begin the journey by recalling the lovely drive down through Boston from our hometown of Portsmouth New Hampshire, the notorious Big Dig providing the first glimpse of the adventures to come. For those unfamiliar with the Big Dig, it is Boston's greatest accomplishment - the largest and most expensive civil works project this country has known to date - to essentially move the crowded, congested, polluted roadways of Boston underground, and vent the pollution onto a number of well landscaped gardens which will be planted directly above the recessed highways to beautify the city and increase traffic productivity. Right. This coming form a city whose drivers are notorious for considering traffic signs and signals as 'optional' distractions - primarily designed for tourists. But we'll get to that later.

Throw into the miles of construction, detours, and craters in the earth (many larger than a football stadium) a large number of wealthy, careless summer drivers in massive SUV's talking on cell phones while passing us in the breakdown lane, and we have near nirvana.

After surviving the downtown traffic, miraculously accident, dent, and scratch free once again (how the hell does that happen?) we were cheerfully greeted by the scent of warm salty air blowing in from the sea. In the moment my brain began to reach it's initial stage of relaxation, when I could nearly taste the Cape Cod beaches, we were briefly stopped for an hour or so with miles of other drivers trapped at any of the various rotaries that ineffectively spill a billion cars onto one (of two mind you) tiny 2 lane bridges. This logic, of course, coming out of the same state willing to spend 14 trillion dollars putting an already obsolete highway underground for no good reason. This is done knowing damn well that every summer millions of tourists flock to the Cape, all at once, and spend the majority of their vacation waiting at one of these intersections, where they become agitated, irritated, grumpy and miserable. It has been rumored that the commonwealth continues this practice as it greatly increases tax revenues through speeding tickets once a driver again realizes the open road, and through a major increase in liquor sales.

After the sweeping and well earned views of the Cape Cod Canal over the Bourne Bridge, victorious over the snarled traffic, we make our way towards the Steam Ship Authority Ferry at Woods Hole soon to sweep us to our Island Paradise. Movie scenes of romantic kisses aboard vacant ferries and quiet sunsets begin to enter your mind. You think of running into your lover's arms just as the ferry pulls away. You smile. You are happy. You deserve this vacation.

Enter the "Steamship Authority Ferry Parking" signs - which begin somewhere around 25 miles away from Woods Hole, but clearly state that you should abandon your ideas of parking within city limits of the ferry and venture somewhere towards the vicinity of Canada. Even tourists from Iowa realize the Cape is south and the Parking lot isn't.

So you begin a new journey to the Parking area - farther North than you probably came from - only to be told (after Parking and transporting your bike and luggage to the shuttle) that you were silly to park in this lot - the only bus that will carry bikes leaves from the lower lot in Falmouth, many miles south and actually in the vicinity of Woods Hole, but of course is probably full by now. This is the first time you begin to question the logic of the tourist toting industry, and surely will not be the last. However, an important New England tradition is learned for visitors and enforced for locals once again - you should eagerly ignore any signs trying to direct, explain, or impose actions on you, because they're probably there just for tourists and you can obviously argue your way into something better. Much like a red light in downtown Boston. It's obviously meant for someone else.

So onto the second lot you go, which of course is still not actually in the town of Woods Hole, but a mere 4 miles away. This is, however, now a comforting distance - to know that in a worst-case scenario (you wake up on an empty ferry in a supply closet where you decided to nap off those margaritas before the long drive home) it would be possible to walk to your car.

Here you are granted a glimpse of hope; the lot is not yet at capacity. You grab yourself a ticket and follow signs from bored college students directing you to the last of five parking spaces. Again the logic burns your brain - what happens to poor bloke #6 who can't park in the lot with a Bike Bus. But you laugh and whisper 'sucker' under your breath, while admiring your handiwork of sneaking so close to the Ferry without a Custom Land Rover or Private limo, victorious over those abusive parking signs and the tyrants trying to direct you to our Canadian friends in the north.

After a few questions of the parking staff (who are so bored they actually respond) you learn the Bike Bus location and for the first time attempt to ride your bike with a 75 pound EMS pack strapped to your back, having not, of course, been on a bike since Computers were the size of small homes. You seem to remember packing next to nothing for weight conservation - and actually consider the idea that someone (possibly gnomes, or maybe your significant other) had displaced his or her load into your pack. This is also where you begin to regret those luxury items like clean underwear, deodorant, and a tent and wish you just packed a loincloth. After all - you're to spend all your time on the beach right? (We'll address this question later)

The Bike Bus operation is surprisingly efficient due to 'Bike Bus Attila,' a seasoned veteran of the tourist trade who retains sanity by barking orders and refusing to offer tourists straight answers to pointed questions. His appearance reminded me of Don Knotts genetically blended with a touch of Sylvester Stallone. Serious intimidation generated by a crusty old man influenced this vision. You are quickly ordered into a circa 1920's school bus painted Island Blue and told to hang your bike from a small set of hooks mounted in the ceiling. When I asked my 105 pound girlfriend if she needed help hoisting the 50 pound bike onto a small hook Bike Bus Attila chirped "What the hell happened to women's lib anyhow?" Which earned a silent chuckle out of me - not due to the rudeness of the statement but of the understanding and admiration of the native Massachusetts browbeating sense of humor. I of course muttered something like 'how rude' to retain my honor - but didn't mean it, I was too busy giggling inside. In retrospect, how this man avoided chronic alcoholism from years of dealing with arrogant tourists was beyond me.

Form our seated position we began to view a number of interesting interactions as more passengers arrived.

Read:

Rude pushy arrogant tourist: "I'm in a hurry, I don't have a bike, and I don't want to walk all the way to the other bus - can I take this Bike Bus"

To which the Bike Bus Attila barks "It's a bus isn't it?"

Then complete the image by picturing a grumpy but well dressed man, probably the proud owner of a new custom built sailboat, fuming at multiple tourists with stupid bicycles (obviously too poor for a sailboat or polo skills) running over his well buffed white dock shoes while he talks loudly on his cell about distributing shares of his IPO.

Chuckle softly. Loudly if you're so inclined.

We then began to realize the pillar of vertically hung bicycles, directly in front of our heads, hanging by a tiny hook bungeed to the front rim of the bike; handlebars neatly poised around the general vicinity of your nose. Thus, every bump sends a looming hunk of rocking metal swinging at your face, held back by a rotten bungee cord with hooks closely resembling a paper clip. After looking at your circa 1985 bike which hasn't seen maintenance since it left the bike shop, you think "I sure hope that front wheel is on tight" Then you realize everyone else is thinking the same thing. Eye contact with another is out of the question for the rest of the ride.

Next stop: Woods Hole. You're there. You watch the Ferry pull away as you arrive but you know there will be another shortly.

Here's the really funny part: Bike Bus Attila now makes a decided effort to locate and say to the same rude SOB who demanded bike bus access with no intention of ever setting his spoiled butt down on a bike seat. (No, I'm not bitter…)

In a pleasant voice only tinged with sarcasm Attila says:

"You wouldn't have missed the Passenger ferry if you took the regular passenger bus, now you're destined for the Cargo ferry with the rest of these nice folks. Why would you want to take the bike bus without a bike, anyhow?"

I laugh out loud. Mr. Rude, of course, doesn't get it. He still believes he is king of the world for single-handedly removing the existence of the few hundred feet he would have had to walk to the normal bus, circumventing the rules proving his power as God of the Universe.

As the giggling subsides, the visions of a cold beer on the ferry's top deck begin to form in my brain; the air blowing through my hair while the sweet beverage culminates the vacation. We obtain tickets, and are excited to learn the next ferry leaves in less than 15 minutes. Only briefly did the question arise as to how the ferry that just left for a 45 minute journey could be back in less than 15, and notice the only remaining docked vessel looks more like a floating mobile home than the amenity-rich Ferry you see in the brochures. Bike Attila now makes total sense: Hello cargo ferry!

So we wait in queue, the other tourists breathing down our necks like a pack of hungry vultures (similar intelligence levels I might add), literally pushing us forward as though the line would disappear if they crowded close enough together. This of course was a flawed philosophy as the only place we could actually go is straight into Nantucket sound.

Once appropriately herded onto the Ferry we realize the small strip of passenger seats (next to the restroom) are fully occupied upon entry. But once again you laugh and say - straight to the bar and the top deck I go. Beer and wild women await me! Trouble is there is no bar, and there's standing room only on the Cargo deck with the cars and tractor-trailers. After all, the Cargo ferry has no bar, it's for cars and cargo, right? No problem, it's all good. No jealousy exists as I look around at the pacified people resting comfortably in their cars, enjoying ice-cold beers from the stocked coolers they were smart enough to stash in the trunk, radios playing Jimmy Buffet or mindless beach music of their choice. I try to think of it this way: I'm adventurous, they're spoiled. I win when all is said and done, right?

One of the crew approaches as I finally toss down my 75 pound sack of iron and says "Be careful, we may get some splashing" This is ignored by all as the water looks to be calm, a few waves bob here and there but just because you have a backpack doesn't mean you're not a somewhat salty New Englander who knows about such things as waves. Remember: eagerly ignore any signs trying to direct, explain, or impose actions on you, because they're probably there just for tourists and you can obviously argue your way into something better. So at the front edge of the boat we stand, wind to our faces, packs neatly placed off to the side to avoid possible splashing, (we're still tourists so we listen - at least a little) and the journey begins. The fog looks beautiful over the island, though it does seem close enough to the mainland to be easily spanned by another rotary/two lane bridge combination. Make the Clinton's pay for it!

We admire the glow of the sun off the moisture in the fog, hunting for rainbows. Nearly lapsing into the tranquility of the island experience, our eyes begin to glaze over with that contented state of being - when suddenly the air is filled with a cell phone ring. The distinctive sound of Pachelbal, of course unique only to my phone because I 'programmed' it to be unique, 'personalized' as the salesman explained it. But so did about six other people standing next to me. Now the scramble was on, phones appearing, buttons pushing, toneless beeping breaking the silence in the race to find out who is the important one - whose phone it actually is. Eventually after all of the fumbling and shouting "Hello! Anyone there? I can't hear so well - I'm on the ferry to the Vineyard" into an empty dial tone, the rightful owner breaks the ringing cycle on eventual connection. Repeat. Again. And again. Drown all sense of island inspired romance in the words "Yes Buffy I'm on the dreadful Cargo Ferry, some incredibly crass bus driver made me miss the 5:15 - how dreadful!"

Then, seconds from the destination dock comes the inevitable, the "splash" that the crew actually warned us about. However, they were slightly inaccurate as this was not a splash as much as it was a rogue Arctic/Atlantic Noreastern driven Hell-wave that seemed to pour onto the deck like a sheet of icy molten lava. Instantly six inches of water careened out of control towards our feet. I, being the adventurer that I am, leapt up on the railing, hands instinctively pulling my feet from the water an instant before the drenching point and shunned the water that missed me entirely, my sea legs going into cruise control. Many of the lesser salty tourists, (and most of my friends,) were easily defeated by the splash, their Nike's and Hiking boots drenched in a matter of seconds. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. I jumped back onto the deck doing a little victory dance only a dry person could do - suddenly realizing at that moment that my packs were on deck and didn't know how to jump as well as their owners. The smile fell off my face like an Anvil in a Roadrunner cartoon. As the ferry docks, we wipe away the tears and hoist our 100 pound packs (note the additional 25 pounds of water weight) and try to forget that all of our sleeping gear, recreational clothing, and underwear are inside those packs, now entirely soaked.

Looking on the bright side, we had arrived. It was now time for a well-deserved cold beer on our island paradise.

Entering the quaint village of Vineyard Haven we begin to scope out possible taverns to quench our thirst for some cold refreshing beverages. This search was of course now by bike, with traffic rivaling that of Boston - only this time I was on a small piece of wheeled metal, protected only by my 100 pound pack which was throwing my balance every which way. After four near-death, bike meets Mercedes accidents did I remember that Vineyard Haven was a totally dry town…

Next Destination: Campground. The choice of campground involved intensive research, specific selection criteria, and careful deliberation on our part: it's the only campground on the island so it must be good. I envision soft, sandy sites right on the beach, or maybe, understanding the economics of beach front real estate, just on a small but quaint salt pond. Small and crowded, maybe, well, probably, but magnificent nonetheless. And it was a mile or so via bike so we could get all heated up in preparation for the Oceanside swim. After all, it had to be nice or someone would open up another, right? Only as we ride away from the water do I begin to question why the images on their website proudly boast vistas of the cliffs at Gay Head, knowing their location was inconveniently placed on the polar opposite end of the island from the campground, but not really thinking of it…until now. Instead I brush it off to my lack of geographical skill.

After barely surviving the traffic, and watching in horror as my girlfriend did what appeared to be a pre-pubescent boyhood BMX bicycle trick - the endo - in front of (and almost into) what looked to be a restored Woody Wagon. For those of you unfamiliar with the term 'endo' it is a technique where kids (and apparently adults - in this case girlfriends on vacation) on two wheeled contraptions purposefully jam the front brake on, freezing the front wheel. This forces inertia or some other highly scientific physical principal to bring the back end of the bike, along with the rider, straight up into the air vertically onto the front wheel, smoothly and gracefully, with perfect timing and calculation, to reach what is known - especially by Buddhists - as Perfect Harmony with your environment. The key to this trick, therefore, is to properly judge the exact point to let go, else you continue the forward motion, up and over, until the bike deposits you on the pavement - squarely on your head. Luckily, she must have been a well experienced BMX rider because she managed to gracefully stop just short of the point of no return, placing the rear wheel back down on the pavement, and sped on unscathed. Amazing.

After 1 mile and about an hour (we were pathetic bikers) we arrive at the Campground. I first see the trees, trees are good. Trees are adventure. I still clung to the idea that the ocean would be nearby, but began to understand that trees were at least acceptable. We bike up to the office, exhausted, and take in the scene. Typical campground look and feel - with one minor exception. That exception being 500 people stuffed into what looked to be 12 campsites, each of those 500 people having an RV and each RV providing a minimum of 7 screaming children, all on bikes roaming the campground like a swarm of angry blowflies after their carrion was carted off. Now this was a different kind of Adventure, kind of like being in the Artic with an Igloo cooler full of ice and cold beer.

I think "We have a tent - no RV or car, they have to give us a nice quiet site" No dice. We get the site on the road next to the office, the golf cart parking, and the swing set. Addendum: squeaky swing set. For the outlandish nightly site fee of $108, I could have bought the 5 square feet of dirt anywhere else in the world. But no, we were basically renting the slice of sand that was informally known as the shortcut to the Office, thus intersected by frequent children, children on moving things, screaming children, drunks, and stray pets. Though of course pets weren't allowed. Our fire ring was practically touching our neighbors - the words of the kind folks in the office ringing true as I recalled them stating "there's only room for 2 small tents". We shake hands with our neighbors as we pretty much had to - they're right there staring at you with only a few cubic feet of air separating us. We tried to at least hide behind the smoke from the fire to create some semblance of personal space, but the $10 a stick wood from the campground store was amazingly dry and smoke free. It was concluded that unless we rebelled and built the fire in the road, we were going to be seeing a lot of each other - especially in the morning when you look your best. So it was best to make friends. Fortunately they only had 4 screaming kids (as the 5th had laryngitis), though quietly mentioning that one of them likes to "wander off' and forget she has a family. Now this is adventure.

After freshening up and slowly questioning what the hell we were thinking while planning this whole camping thing, we set our sights on Oak Bluffs for dinner and that beer I had been craving for so, so long. I earned a new found respect for the plight of the alcoholic to best describe my feelings at this point. Luckily for my group and my previous experiences I was well aware of the Vineyard Brewery - a perfect place for any celebratory occasion, or to drown the senses enough to survive your weekend, or at least the first night, in Hell on Earth. This left two couples eagerly anticipating a brisk four mile ride on bikes who had spent the majority of their lives in cold garages, in deep anticipation of the rewards of Cold Fresh Cask Conditioned IPA. The drooling was literal as we began our brief ride into the closest town - closest town that served booze. I wholeheartedly refuse to acknowledge any town on the map if it cannot bestow a beer upon a weary traveler. Vineyard Haven was now dead to me.

However, Murphy and his damn book of laws was riding closely behind - on a steam roller. About mile two my girlfriend's tire developed a slow leak. Not large enough to prevent riding, but enough to force many a pit stop. The ironic part being that she had this very tire repaired by a "professional" the previous day as she didn't trust me to handle a task as important as mounting a tire for a major bike trip. Luckily for her, I carry a lifesaving portable pump on my frame and the leak was slow enough to fill (with 150 pumps - I counted) every quarter mile or so. Two tired hours later we stumble to the brewery and straight to the bar. Fresh, huge, in-the-shell peanuts await, this place is the real deal - shells on the floor, coupled with cold cask-conditioned beer. The fantasy had come true - and after pinching myself several times (much to the dismay of another mother pulling her small child closer to her) I realized the trip was now decidedly great fun - this was pure pleasure. The beer was followed by a $14 cheeseburger and a few more samplings of malted beverage, which would have been decidedly higher in number had the waitress not disappeared n multiple occasions into the woodwork. Soon, exhaustion set in, and we opted out of the exciting nightlife for our slot of sand back 'home.'

Thus we began to bike (now with a solid exhaustion buzz, and a full stomach) back to the campground - in the complete and utter darkness of night. With one flat tire. Somehow we managed to forget about that tire until our first pit stop. That's' only 12.5 % of all tires, so it could be worse. Though no one had bothered to realize that we were on bikes - and like most places in the world it gets dark at night. At least we reminded ourselves of the wine and a warm campfire awaiting us at the campground. Two challenging hours later (and approximately 1233 pumps of the hand pump) we arrive. I conclude that finding the nozzle on a spoked bike tire, in complete darkness, is far more challenging than a NY Times Crossword or performing open heart surgery on oneself with a dulled toothpick.

We arrive back at our slice of paradise. Little had changed except the children/monsters/terrorists were now slightly tired, thus more vocal and less physical in their annoyances. I open the wine, and prepare the fire.

Seconds after the first match touched the newspaper a golf cart came screaming up onto our site with the speed and agility of a SWAT team helicopter. Astonished, I likened it to being filmed for COPS as my hands instinctively reached for the sky. We then are introduced to our second historical figure, the 'Campground Nazi' who proclaimed: "No fires after 11" It was 11:30. Camping in what resembled a strip mall in many facets was made somewhat acceptable with the idea of a nice fire and some roasted marshmallows. That dream, like many others along the way, was quickly shattered. To pieces. As a result we opened another bottle of wine. And another. And another. Luckily we could see to talk, laugh, and sip, as the family to the left of us featured a quiet Asian gentleman who liked to read at his picnic table by lantern light. This became somewhat of a detriment as it was later revealed that this gentleman didn't sleep. And this is no lie. For our entire weekend this man was up through the entire darkness of night reading. When we tried in vain to persuade him to at least dim the beacon, we learned that he also spoke no English. It therefore proved impossible to ask him nicely to allow us at least some semblance of night by dimming the lantern. We would point at the lantern and he would point at the book. He was well aware that he needed the light to read. After a few more 'turn off your damn light' charades, we considered it vain and gave up. I tried to imagine we were in an Alaskan summer. But we couldn't much complain - at least he was quiet.

But this was nothing - nothing - compared to our next visitor(s) - who were first heard as small ruffles in the leaves that surrounded our site. An army of small but very distinguished striped skunks. It was though Pepe' LePu' had spread his love on the island for centuries, as they seemed to be crawling simultaneously in all directions at once. They didn't smell or seem to be frightened, and were actually small and cute, but were so thick one had to look before stepping for fear of squashing one underfoot. To further add to the excitement, the female members of our party were terrified of skunks and spent much of their time standing on the picnic table.

At first the skunk situation had me troubled. I envisioned walking into a nice restaurant the following day, not only grumpy and dirty from sleeping on the ground but reeking like skunk. An inquiry to the security guard/fire nazi (prompted by the screaming females) provided the following exchange:

Me:
"Are those skunks anything to worry about - there's hundreds of them running around the site"
Campground Nazi:
"Think of them as cats - just shoo them away. I've been here 25 years and no one has ever been sprayed"

End of conversation. I felt better. One of our skunk-o-phobes did not. She didn't sleep a wink as the sounds coming form them were, in her words "like herding cattle" I would have also agreed had I not opened another bottle of wine.

Then, right before bed, came my standard bedtime munchies, which were easily accommodated by the leftover pizza I had carried on my bike from the brewery. Biking builds a hunger, and wine encourages it. We devoured it all except for one piece, which someone mentioned should be hidden from the skunks to keep them from coming any closer. After a bottle and a half of wine I agreed, and placed it into a pocket of the tent.

You can easily see what happened next. Granted, I have always been aware of man's interference with the natural flow of life on earth. My unopened food is always hung from a tree, and any leftovers quickly burnt in the fire. Problem is we had no rope, no trees, and no fire. And we were under the influence of cheap wine and exhaustion and would have laughed at the idea of being affected by any form of wildlife except mosquitoes.

Thus, right after drifting into a coma-like sleep, I awoke to one of the little critters by my head scratching around. I shooed it away in a state of terrified wine induced ground-sleep and went back to dreamland without a second thought. It wasn't until I heard the wailings of my girlfriend and owner of the $300 plus tent at daybreak that I realized that the skunk was after the pizza. And my idiot alarm began to ring louder than it had in years. As did the "stupid things tourists do" bell.

Fortunately, the skunk had apparently been to surgeon's school because the entry point through the Gore-tex infused high tensile strength super tent was so perfect and calculated it almost made you run screaming. The tent, though ruined, was ruined in a neat and tidy way. Two perfect slices, one horizontal, one vertical, and the pizza was neatly slid out of the tent to be enjoyed. This skunk was one well trained burglar.

Later, when getting quarters for my morning shower, did the irony truly strike - like a book falling on my toe. A large sign in the shower 'area' boasted the existence of skunks in the campground - describing them as friendly wildlife, the campground serving as an important 'skunk conservation eco-habitat' or something like that. In other words the skunks were too smart for them to kill off. The sign claimed, much like Campground Nazi, that if not startled or hit with projectile objects they were of little nuisance. Food could be left on picnic tables as (and this is a fact I was unaware) skunks can't climb. Just trying to fathom this left us all in a solid state of denial. You learn something every day. The hard way.

Ultimately my girlfriend knew of the camper's essential tool - Duct Tape, which was immediately purchased at the campground store/shopping plaza. It was my assignment to repair the hole to keep our skunk friend's brothers and sisters out the following night. However, like most other important assignments in life, I failed. The folks at Duct need to update their technology to bind their miracle product to nylon soaked with pizza grease. I may as well have tried to seal it with sand. All of this was attempted before my habitual need for coffee, and it was now time to tame the inner addictive beast.

In order to gain a true camping experience I insisted on making my own coffee. I had carried my small but essential camp stove and mini espresso maker far too many miles to rely on convenience - the rest of our party bought a fresh cup at the campground store/strip mall. I however, needed to feel like a man so I began to brew a highly concentrated cup of Chock Full O' Nuts - the heavenly coffee. But I forgot to put the mug under the spout of my contraption as I was busy explaining the physics of Duct Tape as it applies to grease. The entire cup of liquid heaven spattered onto the table. Once I was through crying, and the caffeine less headaches subsided I tried again, this time achieving success. The entire process was met with giggles and guffaws from my friends as they enjoyed their caffeinated beverages.

After showering summer camp style, typical of campgrounds in the East, it was back on the bikes for an 8 mile journey to Edgartown. Verifying that this was not a dry town in the preparation phase (we were learning, albeit slowly) we rented a bike for my girlfriend to eliminate the 12-pedal-then-stop approach, we set off for the 8 mile journey on one of the Vineyard's busiest and altogether most unattractive roads.

The lightning didn't make itself known until about two miles into the journey. We stopped to assess the situation and looked up to the sky. Here we saw a flash of beautiful blue being quickly dissolved by a cloud of tar, flashing with white light. It was then that the sky opened up, becoming an eerie grey, and began to cascade oceans of cold sharp rain onto our unprotected bodies and daypacks. The rain was severe, rivaling any of the tropical storms in my experience. This coupled with lightning too close for comfort. We scrambled under a thick tree, but to no avail. We just kept saying "It can't rain this hard for long." It did.

We were however conveniently stopped at the bus station. By now we were so wet that returning to the campground was not an option. Though the tents were high quality products designed top keep out rain, they were not infallible. We decided to wait for the next bus hoping the rain would stop in the interim. It just got worse. I don't know how it got worse, but it did. It may have had something to do with the Artic cold front which accompanied it. Within the hour a bus appeared like the Holy Grail. We jumped up and down excitedly on the side of the road like fools, happily remembering that the buses could accommodate bikes. As the bus pulled up we verified that bikes could be carried and were politely told: Two bikes. Two of us would have to wait for the next bus, scheduled to arrive in 55 minutes. Out of pure chivalry, and fear of later repercussions, the ladies were allowed the luxury of a roof. From later recollections, my male friend and I learned all we had missed out on was a bus full of beautifully primped and proper young, wealthy female tourists who giggled at the silliness of the notion to ride bikes anyhow. It was like my dream had finally come true, like years of fantasies that began with puberty, the arrival of the bus, saving my stranded butt; chock full of the Hawaiian tropic girls. But I guess I'll never really know how that would feel, I was busy riding in the rain.

This was actually fun, a highlight of the trip as our adrenaline began to flow. The water so deep it was over our pedals in some places, my all leather hiking boots absorbing it like a sponge. I curiously watched as my friends bike hydroplaned on occasion as it was one of those road bikes with paper thin tires. Testosterone was pumping as fast as the rain, we were beating it, it couldn't keep us down.

After a few miles, the rain began to let up as expected. However, there was literally not one place on our bodies that wasn't' soaked to the bone. It was warm enough to thank God out loud on many occasions - it was the wettest I had ever been. Upon reaching the outskirts of Edgartown we actually passed the bus and the ladies inside to be brought down a bike path that made no sense - wandering through the back streets in aimless directions, and deposited us at our predetermined destination: the Chappaquiddick ferry. Here we waited, remembering the last thing I had said to the girls is "let's meet somewhere logical". Since our primary goal for the afternoon was to hit Chappy, we waited for them to arrive.

They of course believed that the bus station which they were brought to was a logical meeting point. Why? Because they were there and we weren't. The bus station is not well signed and was around 5 blocks from the water where we paced patiently, knowing that the actual destination point of the ferry was not a logical meeting place in the girls eyes but some other place was. Eventually after much wandering we concluded they would be at the bus station, since we would know enough that the bus eventually ended up at a station, and of course that's exactly where they were.

By now hunger began to complicate wet misery, and it was time to get some lunch. We located the infamous and oh-so-good Quarterdeck - a cheap and very informal take-out window that served such treats as Linguica sandwiches and chili dogs. This was good as we would not have been allowed in many of the towns finer establishments. After enjoying our grease out on the wharf we went upstairs to the Seafood Shanty's bar and enjoyed such pleasures as the Bloody Mary, the Irish coffee and the Harpoon IPA while attempting to dry off. Here, after unpacking our bags, we assessed the damage count:

" Two soggy and non-functional cell phones
" One pair of waterlogged Limmer Hiking Boots, welded to the wool socks held within
" Four people closely resembling drowned cats
" One lost bike pump
" A number of US currency bills that would be used throughout our stay in their state of soaking wetness. (People on the Vineyard love being handed wet soggy bills, especially those on an island playground for the rich. It makes you feel so unimportant when you are too poor to go to the ATM and take out bills that don't actually drip.)
" Neatly packed dry clothes, which were of course wetter than those on our backs

However, as the sun began to peek through the clouds, our spirits both naturally and artificially lifted, we made our way to the Chappy ferry down the street. This "ferry" consists of a flat thing that floats, closely resembling Huck Finn's raft, though made of Iron and not wood. For a meager $4 per person you and your bike could be ferried across the endless 7 foot wide sound to the island of Chappaquidick. Infamous for another Kennedy "I didn't do it" story. We seriously had to wonder why no bridge was ever constructed as it seemed downright silly to take a ferry that literally ran once a minute. I am certain there were no engines aboard this carrier, one of the mates just collected the money for his college fund and gave it a push.

I deeply regret seeing the Menemsha bike ferry, a well known endeavor taken on by a local to help tourists cross a smaller body of water to avoid an extra mile or so of pedaling. Probably a cardboard box, or maybe he laid a trench coat down for you to ride across. Or maybe I'm just bitter.

Chappaquidick was an amazing ride, much more like what would be expected on the Vineyard, the ride began past surreal salt ponds, empty except for the occasional kayak or skiff. We rode past a private beach club with a number of yachts moored quietly in the Harbor. The smell of expensive (yet atrocious) perfumes emanated from the rich old ladies hobbling through the gates in their Sunday best. I had no desire to be like this and had a growing pain for our campsite, believe it or not

On we went past a number of glamorous New England style beach houses and bungalows. The first mailbox name read "McCourt" which convinced me Frank McCourt or his brother Malachy (of Angela's Ashes fame) lived there and had wild drunken Irish beach parties - and by the look of the yacht moored in the harbor directly outside the home, I may have been right.

But we were in no mood to stalk celebrities; we had a destination, the Trustees reserve of Winishquam Point. Along the road the homes thinned out and woods began to crop up. Fields of grapevines and Sumac were so dense as to lead you to believe they were hiding something. Something placed there by someone in Kennedy employ…As we progressed, some of the homes began to look so run down as to not be inhabitable. It was a strange and surrealistic feeling to be surrounded by such wealth and opulence in one part, and then poverty and age down the street. Though this gave the island a lot of character and sense of wonder. It was far from the cookie cutter development of rich homes as you would see in Bel-Air and was almost refreshing. Until the paved road ended and the dirt, excuse me, sand road began, that is.

This came to the great distaste of our friend who had decided against his all terrain mountain bike, opting instead for the speed and agility of his road bike. We watched, containing laughter, as he meandered his way for a mile or so performing such stunts as the 'fall over' and the 'fish-tail.' The thin tires didn't have a chance in the deep sand. Our mountain bikes weren't a whole lot more effective in this terrain, especally since we were busy laughing at his antics. Exhausted and bruised, we eventually broke through and saw the Coast, beckoning like the North Star. We had finally reached the Open Atlantic. But first we had to pay.

Four soggy dollars each and we were permitted entrance to the reservation. Miles of Sandy Beach and salt ponds, completely undeveloped and serene, home to thousands of Plovers and shore birds. The surf was powerful, powerful enough to erode great cliffs in the sand. Though it was still gray and dreary I had set my mind to swim and hopped into the frigid Atlantic. The surf here had a rip tide that was powerful enough to sweep away small children. I was amazed that swimming was even allowed. Only upon leaving the reserve at my pit stop at the Port-O-Let did I notice the tiny "swimming strictly prohibited" designation on the map. I battled the waves with all my strength until I was far enough out to look back at them. The water was dense with seaweed which led to a creepy stringy sensation. I had just about begun to relax and let the salt water therapy begin when a vision crashed into my brain like a bowling ball: Jaws, the Great White shark.

Now I am no wimp, and I know better than to fear things like sharks glorified as killers in horror films (it is said that more people die from bee stings than sharks) with the exception of a few current events involving our friendly water dweller, the shark.

1. A boy was just attacked and killed by a shark somewhere in Florida
2. A man in some Caribbean island lost his leg to a shark and may have suffered brain damage form the resulting blood loss, exacerbated by his struggles to crawl for help.
3. An aggressive Great White was spotted off the Cape Cod Coast where it attacked a fisherman's catches and rammed the boat. It is not known if this was for pleasure or hunger, and I don't think we want to.

Knowing that a Great White was seen mere miles from my location was enough to spook me. I envisioned a pulling sensation and great pain. Were the water crystal clear and not thick with the seaweed I may have overcome this fear, but I swam back to shore without hesitation.

As I approached, the powerful waves picked up my entire body and quietly tossed me onto the beach as though I were a small sack. I think it had seen enough of the likes of me.

So on the day went: biking, swimming, sightseeing. Chappy was very pleasant and serene, even though it was difficult to forget that tragedy had once occurred on its soil. It must be nice to be a Kennedy; I get in trouble rounding the pennies on my tax return.

After Chappy, still somewhat wet from various water encounters through the day, it was decided that it was time to separate from the other couple accompanying us - they wanted to return to the hell camp and take a shower, and I would rather have swum back to Massachusetts proper. I personally couldn't handle the remainder of the day without another beer, let alone that Oasis of screaming children. So it was decided, they would go their own way, taking the bus back to the Campground, and we were free to roam. We headed straight for the seediest bar we could find (seedy on the vineyard equating to a true domestic beer available in a can) and had a couple of belly warming brews while enjoying the panoramic street views of the tourists, guffawing at how ridiculous they looked, acted, and actually were. We spent a good deal of time making fun of those in the street, with their matching color-coordinated outfits (usually Polo for some odd reason) screaming children, rat dogs (sorry - miniature how dogs) and screaming children. The street reminded me of a retail based campground experience, only I was inside, lounging at the bar, far, so far , away in mind and body. It was fun. Never, though, will I understand the 50/50 married couple split. What am I talking about? Next time you are in any tourist locale, watch the tourists. You will inevitably find the couple with the 50/50 split. That is, blue shirt white pants on man, white short blue pants on woman. Exact same color. Almost as though they woke up and forgot whose clothes were who's. This phenomenon (as does the mind scrambling 100% similarity look of matching your significant other in the entirety) will forever stun me.

So on we watched, commenting, laughing, giggling, and being happy we were making the fun and not being the brunt of it. I've been there too many times already - especially on this trip.

After the novelty of street heckling wore off, it was dinnertime. Our only desire was to be treated like human beings, waited on as though we were civilized human beings. I ached for civility. Thus we stumbled upon the only place twisted enough to match our wet disheveledness: the Black Bean. An authentic Cajun restaurant - in Massachusetts - the state whose idea of Cajun is Buffalo wings - boneless at that.

We walked to a strange looking barn-type building off the strip. This was promising. As we entered what appeared to be a sun porch, we were wholeheartedly greeted by a large, striking woman in Cheetah skin Spandex pants. She reminded me of any of the Hosts of the "Psychic help line" infomercials on late night TV - Definitely not 'from here.' Turns out she was one of the Owners, from somewhere Waaay down south like New Orleans. I couldn't help wondering…why Massachusetts? But never once did she give us 'the look.' Living in New England I have learned to recognize, understand, and appreciate 'the look.' It is the most simple of acts, a sweep with the eyes from feet to head, all the while with a confused but disdainful look on the look givers face. As quickly as it is commenced, it is complete, but the look has been given. Basically It's a New Englander's way of saying - 'you're out of place', 'you don't belong' and/or 'I'm better than you".' Happens all the time, which is ironic in a region that considers clean Jeans and a golf shirt to be 'dressing up' But its subtlety is well appreciated when contrasted with New York's idea that paying citizen can be denied entry to a bar or club solely based on their appearance. New Englanders know that a dollar is a dollar, and they'll always gladly take your money and treat you with a shred of dignity - once they have completed. "The look'.

Thanks God this lady was form from elsewhere, because she flashed an incredibly warm and genuine smile and led us to our table, introducing our lovely waitress Francine. Francine was from France, judging by her lack of English mastery she arrived on the ferry the previous day. When I coyly enquired as to her favorite menu offering, she replied "chicken. When I asked weather she meant Broiled, Cajun, or fried she replied 'chicken.' I began to understand. My next inquiry was along the lines of "What region of France to you hail form" which warranted, you guessed it 'chicken.' But she was cute, genuine, and honest, so I smiled and sent her on her way. I eventually ordered the Catfish, and my girlfriend a strange dish called 'rib tips' I received a gargantuan greased perfection Catfish filet the size of a King Size Prime Rib, she a plate of boneless pork rib ends that overflowed form the bowl. It was perfect, it was awesome. We chased it with a tremendous New Zealand wine.

After a few bites the wait staff began to frantically circle in the vicinity of our table, staring at the floor and speaking French excitedly. Soon, the male owner, complete with tight pants, a print shirt and hairy chest, began to circle the same area mumbling about a 'water leak' and ''where was the water coming from?' I looked to the point of activity and saw a standing pool of water the size of a kiddy pool on the tile floor and also began to wonder where this water had come from. I followed the path up to the ceiling- no water. Then I saw a small trickle - just a trickle like a small stream flowing into the puddle, and began to follow I t- back to the left, to the right, and then directly under our table. I cringed. Somehow I knew I was responsible. I looked slowly but quietly under our table and saw nothing but my Camelbak hydration backpack ( a wearable water bottle for those unfamiliar) gently spilling out water where the mouth piece used to be. Though my head told me to keep quiet and merely kick it out of the way, my heart explained to the owner what had happened and apologized profusely. He laughed, made fun at me by saying 'Great job Mr. Outdoors man' and ran into the back room. Minutes later he emerged with a wadful of paper towels and walked towards me, towels streaming behind him like a ticker tape parade. As he approached me he said " Mr. Outdoors, kindly place these under that contraption so as to keep my restaurant from falling underwater". So I did as told, red and embarrassed, dreams of civility lost to the camelbak. We finished our meal shamed and quickly left, quite happy with the exception of the man made flood.

By now it was dark, late, and we were tired, so we hopped the first bus back to the camping area. Since none of the bus stops were marked we had to guess our location in the dark, pulling the stop cord a number of times prematurely to the driver's chagrin. Soon, a youngish group toting a case of Bud approached the driver and requested a stop at the campground. We knew what our neighbors were doing tonight….

W approached out site and found our friends sitting around a cozy fire, content to be away from traveling and enjoying the lack of our presence. Their faces seemed to sharpen as we arrived, much like the receipt of a electric bill. But we talked, laughed, and drank the wine away until approximately 11PM when we waited in anticipation of Campground Nazi to begin his hollering. Somehow we managed to keep it going till approximately midnight before the Nazi arrived. Though this time it was an older, more crotchety Nazi, who didn't bother to speak to us and just threw a pail of water on the fire. He merely barked 'No fires' as he sped off on his golf cart to destroy the joy of others within this concentration camp.

So we drank some more, huddled over a small coal approximately the size of an acorn that his water had missed, and chatted the evening away. Soon exhaustion crept in and we settled off to our dusty beds.

Having leaned a valuable lesson about food in tents, skunks, and other faux pas, I checked the tent for all signs of consumables. Once content that none were available, I climbed into my four season Mount Washington-weatherproof sleeping bag and attempted to go to sleep. No sooner did my eyes close than did they fill with sweat. It was hot.Very hot. The warming effects of the wine didn't help, nor the Artic protection of my high quality bag. So for some air, I unzipped the tent, gobbled up some cold fresh oxygen and drifted into a sound slumber.

I awoke to a stirring in my dream I couldn't quite place. It was though I had forgotten my dog outside in sub-zero temperatures. Or left the seat up at Thanksgiving dinner. One of those strange psyhic intuitions we often experience but cannot explain. As I opened my weary eyes to comprehend what was troubling me, I quickly began to wish I never had - I stared straight into two tiny glowing eyes - the eyes of a particularly brave Skunk as he tried to crawl inside the tent. Out of sheer fear a sound emerged from somewhere deepre deep within my chest, a sound which closely resembled the howl of a wounded hyena combined with the squeak of a giggling 5 year old girl. The decibel level of this noise nearly caused a small sonic boom in and of itself, and as a result, lights began to appear in sites all over the campground.

Luckily, the feminine high pitched screech-wail scared the living hell out of our skunk friend (not to mention the entire campground), who tore off in a run so fast there was no time to spray. Proud of my skunk avoidance instincts (later I would explain to my friends that the girlish quality of my screeching voice was purposeful, as skunks hate high pitched noises) I set off to sleep once again, and it came, but fitfully.

Morning soon arrived, the caw-caw of the campground crows waking us. I once again went through the coffee routine, this time not forgetting to place the cup but failing to remember that a enameled metal cup becomes approximately the temperature of the liquid within it - I scalded myself grasping the cup but enjoyed the brew regardless of the second-degree burns on my fingertips.

Even with all the tumultuous events of the weekend, I was sad to realize that this was our last day on this "luxurious" island. We packed our things, said goodbye to the skunks, and began to make our was back into town to the Ferry. Repeating the journey of inexperienced bikers toting 100 pound packs, we dodged through traffic (at least some of us) as we biked our way back to the city. My girlfriend, whose bike and tire were now beyond repair, had a fabulous time pushing her bike while toting her pack. Eventually we all made our way to the station, hot, grumpy, and tired, where we planned to stow our gear and wait for the 9PM ferry, killing time by exploring the island for the rest of the day. But not by bike. Thank God for that.

Instead, I walked over to the Taxi stand, which in the Vineyard is a strange display of circa-1975 Chevy Cargo vans that have seen better days, and the hippieish teen agers who drive them. I haggled over some prices and selected the cabbie who seemed like the most fun, as I enjoy presenting as many inane questions to cabbies as humanly possible in my journey. Questions such as: What is it like in Lithuania, and will you ever return (answer always being "No, I love the United States where I can buy movies, girls, and Polo).

This is not to say that a weekend carefully planned and executed could not be enjoyed, it can! However it involved the occasional lifting of spirits poured directly from a bottle that reads "cote-du-rhone 2001" to numb the pains of the experience.