My Own Private Nantucket

To the editor: On the eve of the Buck Moon, I set out on one of my favorite Nantucket rituals - a hike to Great Point.

The previous month, I had biked to Altar Rock under the Strawberry Moon. Standing at the summit, I paused to take in one of those moments that never grows old. From that high point, as the moon rose, I watched its shimmering reflection reveal itself in three places at once - first across the Atlantic beyond 'Sconset, then over the waters of Polpis Harbor, and finally on Nantucket Sound. The island seemed suspended between them, held gently by the surrounding sea. As the moon climbed above the eastern horizon, it cast long shadows across the scrub oak below, bringing the landscape into startling relief. It was what I have come to think of as a Nantucket transcendent moment—one not easily forgotten.

But this evening it was on to Great Point, inspired by the Buck Moon. After a couple of non-alcoholic beers on the Wauwinet lawn, I set out along the beach. I took my time. For me, it is less a hike than a pilgrimage. Along the way I stopped to visit with fishermen, exchanged a story or two, watched one skillfully land a shark on just 18-pound test, enjoyed a picnic of cheese, hummus, rosemary crackers, and olives, and wandered at an unhurried pace along the shoreline.

As on several previous full moons, the sand road was closed to vehicles for the final three miles through the Coskata reserve, so I had the beach entirely to myself. While the celebrations continued back in town, I found something altogether different: communion with the elements - wind, sea, sand, intense sunlight, and solitude.

After nearly three and a half hours of wandering the reserve, the top of the old lighthouse finally appeared above the dunes. That first glimpse is always a welcome sight.

Soon I reached the northeastern tip of Nantucket, where the Atlantic Ocean and Nantucket Sound converge. There, the opposing tides clash, creating a restless energy that gives the point a sense of raw power and makes it one of the island's wildest and most extraordinary landscapes.

Upon reaching the shelter attached to the lighthouse, I reposed for nearly an hour, listening to the gulls echo through the portico and reflecting quietly on the lightkeepers who had tended this lonely station in every season—often in profound isolation, year after year. On evenings like this, their presence doesn't seem so distant.

Eventually, I wandered out to the western beach. To my surprise, I ran into Burton "Spruce" Balkind, the legendary Nantucket photographer and Trustees ranger. Although he was patrolling the Reserve, Spruce told me he had also brought along one of his cameras in hopes of photographing the moonrise. It struck me that, despite being on duty, he was out there for many of the same reasons I was. Together we lingered, watching the sun sink below the western horizon before making our way around to the ocean side of the point to await the moonrise.

I was hoping to photograph the moon rising directly behind the lighthouse. Spruce smiled, checked the moon's azimuth, and pointed out that it would rise at 121 degrees—unusually far to the south. He explained that if I wanted to see the moonrise, we would have to reposition ourselves. It would be impossible to photograph it rising behind the lighthouse because of the angle. After a few moments of good-natured debate, I conceded that he was right, and we climbed into his truck and drove farther down the beach, where the moon slowly emerged above the Atlantic, glowing a soft rose through a thin veil of haze. As it climbed higher, its light washed across the beach and sea, turning the shoreline to rose gold.

After lingering for a while to take it all in, we climbed back into his truck. Spruce was kind enough to give me a ride back to The Wauwinet, bringing a memorable evening to a fitting close.

Driving back beneath that moon, I was reminded once again that there are really two Nantuckets.

There is the Nantucket of glossy magazines, influencers, Nantucket Reds, blue blazers, elegant garden parties, and carefully posed photographs.

And then there is my Nantucket.

The Nantucket of long walks through historic places and wild places alike. Quiet conversations with fellow travelers who have discovered there is another island beyond the familiar postcard image. People who recognize what Nathaniel Philbrick calls the vortex that draws people here. The lonely lighthouse, haunted landscapes, hidden trails, moonlit beaches, paddling across Polpis Harbor, around Pocomo Head, and across Nantucket Sound to Coatue. The Nantucket of Great Point, where beyond the Trustees' barrier, the only sounds are the wind, the ocean, and the cries of seabirds, and where seals often outnumber people.

And when I long for the wilds of Maine, I head for a place I call Little Maine, tucked away somewhere in the Netherlands of Nantucket. Somehow, it feels like stepping into the Maine we all imagine.

Most visitors never see that island.

Yet it is the Nantucket I experience almost every day.

It is my own private Nantucket.

Charles Dundee