Lost in Nantucket
A wrong turn may be an essential part of the journey.
by Richard Paige
It ought to be an easy early-morning run. A simple loop—2.5 miles—from the Handlebar Café to our Airbnb. I want to see the side of Nantucket that isn’t cobblestones and tourists.
So, off I go with a bounce in my step, a loosely scribbled route with street names and turns, and two and a half hours to kill before our busy day of shooting begins.
And no idea that I’ll need every one of those 150 minutes.
I run out Washington Street past the Nantucket Bike Tours HQ and the Great Harbor Yacht Club and through a beautiful patch of wetlands that separates island life from Nantucket Harbor. I veer onto Orange Street and past the Wicked Island Bakery and Lola Burger—few scents in life are better than a bakery early in the morning. I’m right where I need to be.
The traffic circle at Sparks Avenue is just ahead at what should be the halfway point.
Did you know that street signs on Nantucket are painfully small? Imagine seeing a business card on top of a pole. So now I’m looking for “Lower Pleasant Road,” and I swear this Post-it Note of a sign says “Pleasant Road.” So I keep going.
Chalk that up as mistake No. 1.
I cruise up Sparks past Nantucket High School and the Nantucket Cottage Hospital to Mill Hill Park. I’m glad to come across the Old Mill. Built in 1746, it is the oldest functioning windmill in the U.S. Later today, Wabash intern Joey Lenkey ’19 will lead an NBT tour to the Old Mill and teach us the origin of the phrase “three sheets to the wind.”
And I’m navigating as though I’m just that— somehow I’ve veered seriously off course.
I just gotta get back to the harbor, back downtown, I’m thinking. It’s an island—how lost can I get?”
I run through random neighborhoods with cedar shake shingles, toys in the yards, dogs barking, and frying bacon wafting from kitchen windows, and onto Crooked Lane, past the Offshore Animal Hospital.
When I describe this run later back at the Handlebar Café, Wabash intern SaVonne Bennette will sit in stunned silence, while Joey musters, “Oh, man, you ran way over there?”
I get to Cliff Road and am faced with a decision: right or left?
I choose left. Mistake No. 2.
At first, I’m feeling energized. There is a well-manicured jogging path, and off to my right, it’s green nearly as far as I can see. I’ve come to the Tupancy Links, 73 acres of land held by the Nantucket Conservation Foundation. It’s a former golf course. I know this because when I stop in hopes of finding a map, I find promotional brochures instead.
It’s lovely and green in a way that the rest of the island isn’t, but after 15 minutes of this loveliness, I realize I’m lost. I admit it. And now I’m looking for help. Bikers speeding by don’t see the desperation in my face. Finally, I spot three women come around the corner on the path.
“I’m kind of turned around here,” I say. “How do I get back downtown?”
They reply in unison, “Oh, my!” Then one of them says, “You aren’t anywhere near downtown, but you’ve run into the three nicest women on the island. We’ll point you in the right direction.”
Another says, “Just follow this path back in the direction you came. When you get out to the main road, that’s Cliff Road; that will take you all the way back.”
Later I’ll discover I was about three and a half miles from downtown.
So off I go, not so much running as walking with a purpose. I walk all the way down Cliff Road, noticing how the real estate is changing as I get closer to the historic district.
I’m back on the cobblestones, nearly nine miles covered in all, and with barely enough time to clean up. But I won’t trade that run for anything— seeing the island on my own and at that pace gives me a feeling I can’t get any other way.
I know the place now.
I Feel Like a Child
I can’t walk
And I can’t talk
I feel like a child
I toddle around
Clumsy as a clown
I feel like a child
No one understands me
I am vulnerable, a baby
I feel like a child
A Benjamin Button, that is me.
Body of a man
But a day-to-day
Functionality of age three.
I feel like a child.
Trace Bulger ’19
A Curtain Falling, A Career Rising
by James J. Barnes H’91
It was late December 1955. My wife Patience and I had journeyed from Oxford across Europe to Oberammergau, Germany, in order to meet my oldest brother who was an American diplomat in Prague. We chose this small village as an ideal place to celebrate Christmas together.
One night while we were dining at a small restaurant, I suddenly became aware of a curtain coming down, as though at the end of a play. Darkness descended, and I could see only blurred light and shadow. Although I had been born with very limited vision, nothing like this had ever happened before. I realized at that moment that I had become virtually blind.
The next day I made some phone calls to America, and our family ophthalmologist arranged for me to consult someone in Oxford when we returned to England. The doctor examined me but felt that I should go to London and be seen by Sir Stewart Duke-Elder, the world-renowned ophthalmologist who had treated Edward VIII, George VI, and Queen Elizabeth. It took him less than 30 seconds to diagnose that something had destroyed the retina in my right eye, the eye that still had vision. He declared that I would have to adjust to being blind, and that it would be folly to undergo treatment or surgery; nothing would restore my sight.
He then turned to Patience and asked, “And who might you be?” When she replied that she was my wife he blanched, having obviously thought that she was merely a casual acquaintance. Clearly shaken, he declined to take any fee and ushered us out to face an uncertain future.
We were suddenly confronted with two alternatives: to complete my last year at New College, Oxford, as a Rhodes Scholar, and try to pass the daunting battery of 10 three-hour exams in history the following June; or return to America and be trained as a newly blind person, hoping to go to graduate school at some time in the future.
My ultimate aim had always been to teach at the college level, and this meant becoming qualified.
It was still vacation time at Oxford and I had been married less than a year. We hardly debated the alternatives. It was full speed ahead.
patience and i loved everything about our new life together, our flat and new friends, afternoon tea at New College, dinners at Rhodes House, and we hated the thought of leaving any sooner than we had to. On January 11, 1956, I wrote the following letter to Warden Williams of Rhodes House explaining my situation.
“Other than the normal inconveniences which accompany blindness, I shall continue very much as I have been doing,” I wrote.
The challenges were particularly acute for Patience. She was a bride of five months, and when marrying me had every expectation that my vision would hold out indefinitely. Now we both had to improvise, but I was much more used to functioning as a partially blind person. I realized that many things didn’t require sight: tying my shoe laces and necktie, putting my belt through belt loops, combing my hair, and shaving with an electric razor, but what I sorely lacked were skills involved in navigating on my own.
Somewhere Patience learned that if a sighted person wanted to guide someone blind, she should not try to steer him, but offer an elbow—a simple but crucial difference. Doing this I was able to follow Patience easily as we walked most every where. When we came to curbs or steps, she would tell me, and I could then follow her body motion, a little like dancing. We still use the same system today.
inevitably, the subject of final exams came up in one of my conversations with my tutor for Medieval History, Harry Bell. “Well,” he said. “I suppose you will need an amanuensis and an invigilator.” Unfortunately, I did not know what either word meant! When it was made clear that the first undertook writing for another, and the other watched over the situation, I assured him that I could type my exams if the questions were read aloud to me. However, there was no choice about being invigilated.
The opening day of exams came in June 1956, and I began typing the first of 10 papers that covered The Continuous History of Britain, British Constitutional History, Modern Political Theory, a specialized topic in Victorian England, and one concerning the Liberal Arts as a whole.
After finishing their last exams, most students would traditionally gather on the steps of the Examinations School and open bottles of champagne. In order not to deprive me of this experience, Warden Williams supplied a bottle on the spot, and we all imbibed a goodly amount.
One month later I presented myself before an examining committee for my Viva, an oral interrogation to determine what level of B.A. degree I would receive—a First, Second, or Third. When the results were finally announced I learned that I had received a High Second. Patience and I were delighted, as were my tutors who had very much wondered if I could make it through unscathed. One of them remarked that my work had distinctly improved after I lost my sight. This made sense because my dependence on readers turned out to mean that I covered far more ground in an efficient manner.
My sense of achievement was admittedly tinged with a measure of relief, however, since it confirmed that I had successfully cleared another hurdle toward becoming a college teacher.
—excerpted from Unforeseen: The First Blind Rhodes Scholar. Jim Barnes is Professor Emeritus of History at Wabash.
My Summer as a Painted Turle
by Aaron Webb ’20
California for a 20-year-old from Indiana is mystical—a dream world filled with granite ridges dotted with green and brown pines; miles of beaches sprinkled with blues, reds, and pinks deposited from the seemingly infinite ocean; and endless streams of sunlight that warm the skin and spirit.
When I was hired to work at The Painted Turtle, a camp at Lake Hughes, CA, for kids who have been diagnosed with serious medical conditions, I prepared myself to work in beautiful California. I prepared myself to travel around the state, taking in as much of its natural treasures as possible before my time was up. I prepared to bring back stories of spiritual journeys through the towering sequoias and whimsical follies on the beach.
I had not prepared to see the world’s unlimited, unlabeled, and unavoidable beauty as seen in the lives of Nando, Roy, and Nathan.
nando embodied cool, maintained an “I’ve been here before” air about him.
Regardless of the unshakable California heat, Nando committed to a look featuring black high-top Vans with white accents streaking from heel to toe, black denim cuffed to reveal the socks covering his ankles, T-shirts that ranged from all white to black with “Thrasher” sprawled across his chest, and always topped off with a headband to maintain the center part in his swirling, dark hair.
Nando calculated when to show his personality but would always humor us counselors with a slight chuckle and sly grin whenever we would crack a bad joke or make fools of ourselves.
Nando knew camp, and you could tell.
Roy’s facial expressions provided the counselors with everything we needed to know about his thoughts and feelings. Roy was nonverbal—the few times he did speak his voice was faint, and he never spoke more than five words. He used a wheelchair to get around and braces to help support his legs. Roy’s fluorescent shirts and pants mirrored his personality.
Roy loved camp, and all you had to do was look into his eyes and his broad, beaming smile to see it.
Nathan loved theater. He knew by heart parts of his favorite musical, Hamilton: An American Musical. He would quietly perform the songs, accents and all, as we wandered from activity to activity.
Nathan quickly became a leader for the others in our cabin. He was always one to crack jokes and fuel the silliness camp promotes, but he was just as willing to be vulnerable, to provide eye-opening insights that forced us to think, to feel.
Nathan wanted others to feel the magic that camp had instilled in him, and he would do whatever it took to pass that gift along.
but nando never danced with us, never felt compelled to participate in that, our favorite post-meal ritual. Which was fine. At camp we believe in challenge by choice. Everything is possible and encouraged, but nothing is forced.
Soft-spoken, Nando never embarked on long-winded responses or contributed to the pool of goofiness that amassed whenever the cabin had some downtime.
Nando preferred to observe.
That changed when our cabin paired with another, and the campers in my cabin got the chance to mentor younger campers. Being a mentor gave Nando a way to show everyone who he truly was. He began engaging more with his cabinmates. He allowed more of himself to show. He was a tremendously supportive mentor, and would do anything to encourage the others.
He became the heart of our cabin. A grin that defined camp’s power and magic.
And by week’s end, Nando could be seen dancing next to the camper he mentored, joy in his face and moves. Nando was always compassionate, loving, and intelligent. He was just never given the chance. Camp gave him that chance.
roy rarely stopped smiling. From shooting arrows at the archery range to swimming in the pool, Roy’s smile came to be standard equipment.
Nothing ever got to Roy—until he encountered the high-ropes course.
The most emotionally and physically demanding activity at camp, the high ropes force campers to face their fears and doubts, to search for courage they may not know is within them. For a camper who relies on a wheelchair, the high-ropes course can seem impossible.
For Roy, the ropes course was the impossible.
Under a cloudless blue sky we harnessed up and prepared to take on the ropes course, Roy included.
He was nervous. The beaming smile faded to a frown. He had overcome so many challenges in his life, but you could tell that the ropes course was something else. Bigger. Still, Roy prepared to take on the challenge. We transferred him into the black mesh sling that would cradle him as he ascended to the top of the course, where he was placed into the wheelchair waiting for him.
I followed behind to lend a helping hand. A tension-filled exchange of commands flew from counselor to counselor to ensure that Roy was safely locked into the rigging. The stress showed on Roy’s face. He stared off into the distance. Then he reclined in his sling and was guided to the ledge of the 30-foot-high platform, and on a count of three he was released to a whiz of cable and rigging.
For a few brief moments Roy achieved a freedom that kids with his conditions rarely, if ever, feel. He was flying.
The smile that defined Roy returned as he descended. Kids who come to The Painted Turtle camp are given the chance to live without labels, and, as the camp’s founder Paul Newman put it, “raise a little hell.”
Roy told the world that anything is possible louder than any of us could shout it, and all through a smile.
nathan’s week at camp was nearly over, and the emotion-filled Bale Closing (we call each cabin a “bale,” the collective noun for a group of turtles) hit him with that realization all at once. Bale Closing was a time for reflection, and Nathan had a lot to think about. He had met and made friends with so many others dealing with the same condition as his own. As Bale Closing finished, the guys in our cabin began making our way to closing campfire, the official end to camp. Nathan walked alone, his head dipped and eyes closed.
I worked my way up to Nathan to check on him. We talked about some of the moments he had experienced with his fellow campers, and before rationality or pride could intervene, we were walking side by side, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, crying. Not tears of bitterness or regret, but tangible reminders of camp’s importance in a time when joy and love are hard to find. As we neared the campfire, Nathan mustered enough composure to mutter, while shaking his head, “Best week of my life.”
nando, roy, and nathan each have given me more than I ever deserve. They taught me how life should be lived, regardless of our circumstances. Nando’s love, Roy’s smile, and Nathan’s vulnerability each hold more meaning than any of those solitary moments on a trail or beach parties I had imagined for myself when I dreamed of California. They taught me to be true to myself and love completely and wholly, to live unlabeled and unlimited, to live unafraid, to be emotional in times when emotion and genuineness are needed more than ever.
They teach me to be a Painted Turtle, wherever I go.
Aaron Webb is a philosophy and pre-med major and received the Dr. Paul T. Hurt Award for All-Around Freshman Achievement at Awards Chapel last April. The Painted Turtle is a summer camp program in the Los Angeles area for children with cerebral palsy, hemophilia, kidney and liver disease, and a variety of other chronic and life-threatening medical conditions.