“How’s your sister?”
“Baxter Road is the very soul of the bluff,” Cissy goes on. “And it’s also the road that leads to the iconic Sankaty Head Lighthouse. The street is lined with historic homes and is a crucial part of the island’s identity.”
“How’s the ER business?”
“Your dad still alive and well?”
“As the bluff continues to erode,” Cissy says, fixing her glasses so they are more firmly on her face, “Baxter Road is in grave danger. In addition to threatening the homes that are the very fabric of this island’s character, the erosion undermines the infrastructure of Sconset itself, putting at risk our water supply and sewage lines.”
Bess drops off the last flyer with the manager of their favorite restaurant, the Chanticleer, and backs up against the wall, arms crossed. She watches Evan distribute the rest of his.
“On top of this is the decline in revenue,” Cissy says. “Erosion has already caused the loss of over sixty million dollars’ worth of property. Sixty millions’ worth of this island’s tax base. And the number is increasing as we speak. Every day we lose more cubic feet of our beloved land.”
Bess’s head jolts up. Every day? As in all the days? Cissy glossed over this key detail. Damn that woman. So good at what she does. Professional rabble-rouser and sneaky, sly fox.
“Nantucket is a special place,” Cissy continues, “and Sconset is a major reason why. Picture the narrow lanes. The charm of the rose-covered cottages. Beautiful Sankaty Head Light. Not to mention the houses, the historic homes with stories to tell. Homes with family memories, island memories locked inside.”
As Cissy’s voice bubbles with emotion, Bess finds herself growing weepy-eyed, too. She pushes away her tears and looks up to find Evan watching her. Bess glances away, pretending not to see.
At last Cissy wraps up her speech with a few more mentions of “character fabric,” followed by a slide show featuring the homes that could be lost if they don’t act. She hasn’t put Cliff House in the show but the Mayhew place is “best for last,” which elicits a brief Cissy-Chappy fracas until someone removes them from the floor.
“My house isn’t going anywhere,” Chappy calls, his parting shot. “Except up in value when it has a panoramic ocean view!”
“I’m surprised you’re paid by pound of fish, and not by pound of horseshit.”
Checkmate, Chappy Mayhew. Cissy got the last word after all.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be concise.”
Geologist Morton Schempler appears at the podium, shuffling along like a prison warden or the losing football coach. It’s evident he doesn’t have the patience for town rivalries or neighbors with agendas. No thanks on shrill grandmothers, either. These people paid for a study, not a speech, and he’s not keen to stick around.
“This revetment project is a horrible idea,” he says, straight off, from the spot where Cissy stood minutes before. “You’ll see on the screen dozens of projects that have used walls exactly like those proposed by the Preservation Fund. And every single one has failed. Hard armoring has been proven ineffective multiple times, in a variety of situations. All it does is give a false sense of security to property owners and create further deterioration of the surrounding beaches.”
“Well, this is uplifting,” Bess mumbles to Evan, who is now beside her.
He replies with a snicker, an almost-secret laugh, like he doesn’t want to be caught.
“Constructs like these,” Schempler continues, “protect only the land immediately behind them, with no protection offered to the fronting beach. Ultimately, this causes ever more erosion and you’d have to keep building more walls to buttress the beaches. The beaches would continue to worsen, therefore necessitating—you guessed it—more walls. It’s a vicious cycle and the long-term costs would far exceed the funds of any public or private sponsors. I won’t bore you with a bunch of scientific gobbledygook as the formula is really quite basic. Hard structures plus water equals no beach. Thank you for your time.”
Morton folds up a piece of paper, then tucks it into the back of his Dockers before advancing straight out the door. He’s not going to stick around, because what could anyone say? The look on his face is this: Either you’re with him, or you’re dumb as a seawall.
Approximately ninety seconds later, the selectmen dismiss the public from the meeting. Everyone files outside.
In front of the building, islanders exchange hellos. Cissy makes a snide comment about Morton Schempler’s skin tone and throws her car keys at Bess. She’ll hoof it the eight miles home, through the mist and the chill. She needs time to think.
Back at the Public Safety Building, away from the eyes of the townsfolk, the selectmen sit down to vote on the Sankaty Bluff Storm Damage Prevention Project, revetment version. They’ve promised to announce the decision by midnight. Bess doesn’t even stay up, because the result seems clear. Poor Cis. If your own daughter won’t buy what you’re selling, it doesn’t look good.
22
Island ACKtion
TOWN SELECTMEN KNOCK DOWN HARD ARMOR PROJECT
May 21, 2013
Well, damn it. Cissy Codman couldn’t work her magic. There’s a first for everything.
After a year’s worth of work, a year’s worth of research, and hired experts, and God knows how many millions of dollars, the Board of Selectmen struck down Cissy Codman’s Damage Prevention Project by a vote of 4–1.
Both sides presented compelling cases. There was charm and history and storied homes on one hand, erosion on the other. The proposed measures will do more harm than good, a geologist told the group. And so the no’s prevailed.
“Sounds like one seawall really means two, which means ten or more,” says one selectman, who wishes to remain anonymous. “Where does it end?”
Where does it end, indeed. According to Cissy, not here.
“The battle isn’t over,” she says. “There are other options.”
More options. Fantastic. Can we go back to reporting on celebrity sightings and white parties?
As for Cissy, rumor has it she will finally move out of Cliff House, within the next twenty-four hours no less. It’s a temporary situation, she claims, until she has a chance to relocate the home a few yards off the bluff.
To date, we here at Island ACKtion have not expressed a viewpoint on the proposal but let’s say this. We love living in a place where a fired-up Cissy Codman exists. But it does seem like the most logical conclusion was reached. RIP Cliff House. You will be missed.
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ABOUT ME:
Corkie Tarbox, lifelong Nantucketer, steadfast flibbertigibbet. Married with one ankle-biter. Views expressed on the Island ACKtion blog (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, et al.) are hers alone. Usually.
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23
The Book of Summer
Harriet E. Rutter