This week I’m hanging out in the land of crabs and bad fashion. No, silly, I’m not stage-side at the Squire; I’m on Nantucket for Figawi. (That’s an ancient nautical word that means “Shit! I just dumped my Bloody Mary on my sky-blue Lobster-print pants. I hope it doesn’t stain. Can you pass me some soda water?” I’m not kidding.)
Besides being a good excuse to get your first summer drunk on, Figawi is also an annual boat race that brings hundreds of sailors to traverse the waters between Hyannis and Nantucket with the hope of taking home both a victory and a decent piece of ass from the Chicken Box.
For my stay, I’ve procured a lovely little room at a bed-and-breakfast, conveniently located downtown in the historic district. (Wow. What the hell has happened to me? A B&B in the historic district? Why don’t I just strap on an “ACK” fanny pack while I’m at it? I can keep my money and my dignity in it when I head out drinking tonight.)
But, to be honest, I really like where I’m staying. I’m getting older now, and I guess I enjoy a little maturity in my immaturity. That hasn’t always been the case. In college, I used to spend this weekend on the Cape. Ten of my buddies and I would get disturbingly drunk at the Mill Hill Club and then pack ourselves into an un-air-conditioned two-bedroom trailer that sat on the side of the road in South Yarmouth. Sure, it smelled of armpits and bad breath, but it was home.
Tonight I spend the evening drinking with some friends at the Straight Wharf. If you’ve never been, Straight Wharf is the first bar you walk past when you climb off the boat in Nantucket. It’s like Ellis Island, if Ellis Island served shots of Patrón and had an unlimited supply of Lacoste clothing. The place reaches capacity almost immediately. Suddenly it’s a shoulder-to-shoulder sea of sunburns and seersucker. Luckily, I’m one of the few who’ve managed to find wall space. Unwilling to give up this highly coveted “sea” side real estate, I spend the rest of my evening watching the tide while forcing my friends to be my beer bitches. (Were there enough clichéd nautical references in that last paragraph for you? C’mon, cut me some slack — I’m drowning over here.)
The night comes to an end and once again I find myself disturbingly drunk. As I take the now crooked walk from the Straight Wharf back to my room, I bump into a friend who wants me to go to an after-hours party at a house out on the beach. I think about it for a moment but decide not to go. I’ve had enough island cheer for tonight. Besides, it’s getting late and breakfast at the B&B is served at 8 a.m. sharp. I would hate to miss it.
