ISLES OF SHOALS (continued)

DAY FIVE

Another hot day. When John Smith visited here in 1614, he remarked on the lack of shade trees among the barren rocks. Then he named this place Smythe Isles after himself, called the whole region "New" England in order to impress his king, and never came back.

Not much has changed on the Isles, shade-wise, in four centuries. There are a few tall bushes and scraggly plants that barely pass as trees. We have learned to plan our chores for the cool mornings and evenings. Today Maryellen cut the tall grass by the house with an old wooden two-handle scythe while I fiddled again with the gas-powered weed whacker. Hundreds of tugs on the starter cord and it finally roared to life.

There is something deeply satisfying about walking the island with a motor strapped to your back. Whacked my way out to the tall grass at the Spanish sailors graves, then spent two hours clearing the little Haley cemetery. The vegetation was so lush that I seemed to be sculpting the gray tombstones and the little stone wall from a slab of solid green. Tomorrow I will whack the foundation of the Hontvet House, scene of the 1873 murders.

My intention was to do steward chores, then row to Star each day before the noon heat. There I would find an unused electrical outlet in the one-room library, plug in my laptop, and work on my "endless novel". Smuttynose photoI attempted that only once, on Monday, and woke up two hours later, drooling like a drunk. Now I just nap in the house on Smuttynose where it is always cool.

This afternoon friends with a boat from Kittery stopped by bringing us two glorious blocks of ice. Maryellen and I struggled to recall the art of conversation as we sat on the rolling lawn slathered in #45 sunblock, the little bowl of salsa nearly boiling in the heat.

Later Peep-peep, our favorite baby gull got a grand piece of fish from one of his parents. I watched out the cottage window, barely four feet away. When they are hungry, the chicks peck at a red dot on the parent's beak. That stimulates the adult to regurgitate food for the baby. Older now, Peep-peep was nonplussed, unable to eat such a gigantic slab of food. So the parent picked it up and pretended to take it back. The chick complained, and grabbed a piece of fish guts, ripping the red rubbery goo into edible bits. It was a great bit of parenting, a Polaroid moment.

Later I tried giving another chick a hot dog that was turning too white, even for my taste. An adult blackback swooped down and took it. Then another gull appeared and grabbed the first one, literally swallowing its head right up to the eyeball. They stumbled and danced back and forth across the lawn in a violent tug-of-war.

CONTINUE with Smuttynose Island Diary