Page 1 of The Book of Summer

1

Island ACKtion

CLIFF HOUSE A GONER?

May 15, 2013

Rumor has it the quintessential Nantucket manse known as Cliff House is days from falling into the ocean. A heartbreak, to be sure. It’s the only original and complete pre-1978 building left on the northernmost portion of Baxter Road.

For anyone living under a seashell, the home is all the way over in Sconset, atop a bluff and a few beats from Sankaty Head Light and the famous golf course where you can find a certain hoodied NFL coach swinging his clubs.

Besieged by decades of erosion, Cliff House is a lovely old place that has aged a century in the past year alone. There was Hurricane Sandy last fall, followed by the cruel February blizzard, and a ruthless nor’easter in March, which brought winds exceeding 90 mph. In only eight months, Cliff House has lost over fifty feet of bluff. That’s half a football field, ladies and gents. The hoodie guy would tell you that.

As most know, town shaker Cissy Codman owns Cliff House. Cis claims to have some tricks up her sleeve, sand recycling and barricades and such. And while we’re obsessed with Cissy and her tricks, whatever grand plans our favorite Sconseter has devised must be okayed by a bevy of local and state interests. By and large, islanders don’t want the barricades. The Summer People do. And Cissy Codman is a little bit of both, living here mostly year-round but being a Bostonian at heart.

They say hope is gone but we atIsland ACKtionfind that a hard pill to choke down. If anyone can save the bluff, it’s Cissy. No doubt, she’ll move heaven and earth to get what she wants. Let’s pray the earth doesn’t move first.

Stay tuned, Nantucketers. This fight isn’t over. Personally, I’d put my money on a spunky sexagenarian who never seems to sleep.

ABOUT ME:

Corkie Tarbox, lifelong Nantucketer, steadfast flibbertigibbet. Married with one ankle-biter. Views expressed on theIsland ACKtionblog (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, et al.) are hers alone. Usually.

2

Saturday Afternoon

Only Cissy Codman would pick someone up at the airport on a bike.

“Bess!” she hollers, pedaling up. “Elisabeth!”

Cissy is in her standard uniform: khaki shorts, denim button-down, beaten-up Keds. Her hair is tucked into a Red Sox baseball cap.

“Oh, Bess, you are beautiful!” she says, and then annihilates her daughter with a Cissy-grade hug. Vigorous. Aggressive. Almost punishing. “I expected so much worse, given the divorce.”

“Pending divorce. And Mom? A bike?”

Bess is too flummoxed by the mode of transportation to grouse about any backhanded compliments, which are a Cissy Codman specialty. Bess is used to them, and to the bike as well. None of it should come as a surprise, yet Cissy always catches her daughter off guard.

“Do I need to rent a car?” Bess asks, and wheels her suitcase out into the sunshine.

She shades her eyes with one hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cissy says. “This is Nantucket, not LA.”

“Okay, but I live in San Francisco, which is four hundred miles from Los Angeles and basically like living in a different state. Also, you realize we’re at least five miles from Cliff House?”

“Just over seven,” Cissy says. “I have a basket on my bike, though!”

Bess glances down at her suitcase. It fits in an overhead compartment, but definitely wouldn’t in the weather-beaten wicker box dangling from Cissy’s handlebars. Not to mention, Milestone Road is one boring, interminable shot out to Sconset. To bike it without luggage is hassle enough.

“Cis, do you really think I can fit this…” Bess gestures toward her suitcase. “Into that?”

The bike basket is so lacking even the Easter Bunny would complain.

“I didn’t expect you to bring so much,” Cissy says.

“Oh, Mom.”