This morning my fan exploded. Don't ask me how, I don't know -- at about 4:49am I heard a bang, almost like something heaving falling, followed immediately by a shattering tear and the sensation of shards of something peppering my arms as I slept. I woke up, staring at the little pieces of whatever sprinkled on my arms, mistaking them for glass in the early morning's dull blue glow. I looked around, thinking that one of the windows above the bed fell over and shattered, and that's about when Shane woke up wondering what happened. I told him I thought a window fell out (and he initially did too, I found out later), but he pointed out that it could be the fan. That's when I noticed an odd whirring noise coming from the fan, and as soon as my brother turned on the lights, realized that the little bits of "glass" were actually fragments of white plastic. I shut off the fan. As the motor slowed down, the fan's shattered blades came into clarity. It looked like one of the blades broke off somehow and then shattered another blade when it hit, and so on, until all of them were in tattered bits strewn about the inside of the casing and around the room. Neither looking forward to cleaning up, nor sleeping in a bed filled with coarse plastic powder, I shuffled up into the loft and went to bed there... hesitant to turn on the other fan.When I woke up, the day was absolutely beautiful. Clear blue skies, warm weather, a nice breeze -- sipping a cup of coffee by the poolside, it felt like paradise. It didn't feel like New England at all, but some fanciful respite from the world, where the biggest concern is what you're going to do for fun that day. Seeing a biplane tour flying overhead from the nearby airport, I was reminded that an aerial tour of the island was one option. Since we're still unwinding from the drive yesterday, I think I'll leave that for another day -- I just hope it'll be as beautiful as this one. Though, I guess I lied a little bit about no concerns; I still had to clean up all the plastic fan bits from the bedroom.
Once the last of the tiny shards of this morning's incident were tossed to the wind, we set out on an adventure to Oak Bluffs. As Pierce navigated us through the streets, we passed countless numbers of bicyclists, first-time moped drivers, and pedestrians. The entire island feels like a giant club-med spa resort, but in the Northeastern United States; it is a far cry from Ocean City, MD, where the beach caters to any Joe and Mary Shmoe (and Shmoe Jr, too!). Here, everyone, I mean almost everyone, is excersizing or looking fabulous and excersizing. I chewed contently on my Slim Jim. Speaking of which, we crossed over the bridge where the kid in Jaws got his leg bitten off. It looked like a popular spot regardless of its fame, with kids and adults jumping off the side into the tide-swolen waters not far below. After passing 14 bicyclists in a row (no lie), we parked in Oak Bluffs and walked around town. Stepping out of the car, I was greeted by a pleasant panorama of the beach, seeing the bussle of sun bathers and families scattered about between rock jetties. We left the view for the town, immediately noticing a giant village green. For a moment I thought we stepped into a fairy-tale; countless Queen Anne style houses surrounded the perimeter of a round green field with a gazeebo in its center. People were walking along, flying kites -- all around a pleasant feel. Once we stepped into the center of town it was much like what you'd see in Rehoboth, DE, or other quaint beach towns, with an eclectic collection of shops dotting the streets. We tired of this pretty quickly, but even more importantly, it was lunch time.
After a long ride across the island, we approached The Bite near Menemsha. This quaint shack would have been considered a hole in the wall if it wasn't the only building for another half-mile. I placed my order and give my name to a jovial man who worked behind a screen door, and he passed it off to the other kitchen staff less than three feet away. Excited, I took a seat on a wooden bench with the guys and waited for, according to Pierce and Mark, the greatest Quahog chowder and fresh sea food you could have for cheap. They weren't kidding. The clam chowder was amazing, and the fish fillets were fresh and breaded lightly. I had a feeling that we would frequent the tasty sea-food shanty pretty much every day thereafter. Stuffed and satisfied, we tossed the empty symbols of a good meal into the trash and headed out for a stop I didn't quite expect. Apparently, the late great comedian John Belushi was buried in Martha's Vineyard, so we stopped by his modest plot on the way to South Beach. In the middle of a small area surrounded by a wooden fence, there stands a tombstone whose epitath reads, "I may be gone, but Rock and Roll lives on." Mark mentioned that many travelers visiting the site would often leave little tokens at the foot of the gravestone, such as various cigarrets, cigars, beer, and blunts. While standing at the plot, I was suddenly reminded I still need to watch Animal House. After paying our respects, we moved on to the beach.
My point earlier about everyone being fit and/or picturesque stood out even more when we got to the beach. In fact, I've made an addition to this obsesrvation: almost all the young guys I've seen going to the beach, near the beach, or wherever, all look like douchebags. This has actually been established on the way to South Beach, and confirmed by several other sources. I don't normally pay attention to class or social barriers (I like to see them more as lines to cross and mess around with), but this was starting to get a little uncomfortable. I suppose that's what happens when you visit an island that is generally frequented by those with expendable income and is home to the likes of James Taylor. Putting these facts aside, we stormed the beach and attacked the waves head-on. Well, all of us except Pierce; he promptly fell face-first onto his beach towel and passed out. I went ahead and ran into the water, and eventually Shane and Mark followed suit. The beach dipped down quickly, so the waves were pretty formidable that day and excellent for body-surfing. Though the water was a bit chilly, we quickly grew accostomed to it; I'm sure that getting thrown around by the sea helped warm us up a bit. Before we finished up, Mark and I got caught off-guard by a wave that probably stood 6-feet over our heads. Next thing I knew, I felt the sensation of sand and salt-water pummeling ever inch of my body, followed by Mark colliding with me and my feet floating over my head as I rolled under the wave. Once Mark and I were sufficiently tenderized, we stumbled back to Pierce's car and headed back home to relax (and de-sand) in the backyard pool and enjoy a relaxing meal.
