Herman Melville – not particularly known for his brevity – captures the paradox of Nantucket in his opus, Moby Dick, quite succinctly. He describes this tiny wisp of an island as a “mere elbow of sand” and yet a “real corner of the world”. Worldly, yet secluded. Local, yet exclusive. Nearly 150 years later, Melville’s description is still spot on.
Melville stayed in an islander’s private home – not a hotel – because, well, there weren’t any. Today, there are hotels here and there, but nothing can compete with a luxury beach house rental for the ideal islander experience. Unlike Melville, you’ll probably want, oh say, running water. And a chef’s kitchen (with a chef in it) and wifi so you can re-read Moby Dick on an aged cedar deck. By your own private pool. Overlooking the breaking Atlantic while sipping a vermouth cocktail. Forget the white whale; lobster bisque is on!
But for such a tiny place, Nantucket offers an enormous variety of vacation experiences. Neighborhoods dot the island, each one catering to a diverse set of interests. The good news is, whatever you’re looking to do this summer, Nantucket has a niche for you. Here’s a sampling of a few isle locations:
You’re in the Pierce Gallery. Someone hands you a Triple-Eight vodka martini with a single local cranberry garnish. It’s cold as a Nantucket January, neat as a saltbox colonial. You stand in front of a Geetesh, wondering if it would work in your office or maybe you’re just thinking about the connection between the universe and these colors. Your companion’s eyeing a Lu, its Vermeer-like light and ultra-realism clearer, more cutting and edgy, than Geetesh’s dreamy melting colorscapes. You end up holding hands by a little Gibran bronze. It goes back to your home with you, sits on the table as you dress for a night of theatre at the Workshop for a staged reading or an improv. The concierge has a chef coming by at 8 to dress local steamers in wine and a little cream from dairies just south of town, for when you get back. You hook your music up in the Bang & Olufson wireless stereo, turn it up (you’re not bothering the neighbors—what neighbors?), dance a little with a splash of Notch over a single cube. Outside your wall of windows the stars look huge and bright, so close you could swing on them, if you wanted.
Ava and Josh are chasing each other round and round the villa, screaming, their feet pounding the wood floors. Sometimes they tumble down, laughing hard; the sound like pouring out stones on something hollow. You watch them, not worried: this is your home for the week, the month. Let them play. There’s no one to bother. You sip your cranberry lemonade, one eye making sure no one’s getting hurt, the other on the sea you can see from your windows. Rough in the sound even, too rough for the babies, but in half an hour you’ll walk down to the lighthouse, then to the Children’s Beach where the tide purrs in like the waves, soft and low enough for infants. “That’ll wear them out”, you think; just in time to get them to bed and go out for some Pocomo oysters or a Bartlett’s Farm salad at Oran Mor. You text the concierge: “Sitter for two? 7pm? Thx.” She writes: “All fixed. Shall I let her in?” The beach bag with your novel, the pages curled and sandy, is ready to go. “Kids? Beach?” And you’re out the door.
It’s the way you’re used to living; the long driveway, the house at the end like something you can depend on. Here on the terrace, you look down to the bay where the skiff is and think, “Maybe tomorrow a little fishing after tennis.” The whiskey the concierge left is local, mellow. Its terroir is here, where you’re sitting. Salt and cranberry; that indefinable taste of the sea which has iron in it and the light that is pure Nantucket, like some places you’ve been in Italy where the stones are millennia old. It’s past 8 and the sun’s just lipping the horizon. The man brings you another drink and a box of Montecristo #2s then lights one for you. The smoke mellows the whiskey more, the taste shifting like the sky with the evening coming on, and you begin to wonder if there’s a game somewhere to go to. There’s a phone at your elbow. The concierge will know.
You’re there for the birds. Honestly, though? You’re there for the Lapwings. They’re on your life-list, after all. Rumor has it there’s a pair on Nantucket since Hurricane Sandy blew them there. Right now, with your toast in your mouth and Zeisses up, you’re looking out the breakfast room windows into the marshes. You see a Kingbird and a bunch of Towhees raking the grass. Up over the bay, there’s a single Osprey fishing from the sky. Today’s agenda: venture up the Head of the Harbor to the Wildlife Refuge. You can walk there from the estate almost, but it’s morning and a little chilly. You didn’t think about a thermos of tea—that was the concierge—but it’ll be useful, like the bike he arranged for you. You’ll take the little roads, no traffic, just a mile or so north. You listen to the scree of a Cooper’s hawk somewhere in the high scrub. “No”, you think, “today the water”. You want a kayak. Catch a bunch of oyster-catchers, maybe watch the Osprey dive. Text the concierge: “Kayak?” He says, “On top or inside?” You: “Top. Hour?” “Got it,” and texts the address for pick up. Your Sibley’s bird app is turned to “Waterbirds of the Northeast”. You thumb over to your life-list and see what you don’t have while you finish that last bite of toast.
* The Best of Everything : Cliff Road
Escape. Disappear. Flee. Words that run like a news ticker endlessly through your stress-ridden mind. Air. Light. Liberation. Words that sink in slowly. Absorbed softly as sand muffling barefoot steps on the beach. Peace washes over you as days of water colored sunsets become the new normal. At least for this week. You take advantage of miles of bike paths and poolside yoga instruction to counteract a new penchant for your at-home chef’s insane lobster rolls. The sea calls to you from your widow’s walk; a day made for sailing. A quick conversation with your concierge and it’s done. An afternoon on the water with catch-of-the day sushi, champagne and a horizon of blue. Tomorrow you’ll skip the bike and grab a board, take the kids and a picnic for a few more memories. Wipe outs or hanging ten, the secret loft back home awaits you for a restorative nap. Waking refreshed, you aren’t surprised the chef has cocktails and appetizers waiting. Sunset on the balcony as another Nantucket day ends.
If you’re waiting until the snow melts to book your summer in Nantucket, we’ve got one word for you: fogettaboutit. By the time spring has sprung, most of the rental properties on this exclusive corner of the Atlantic are already spoken for. Time & Place Luxury Vacation Homes is now offering exquisite rental properties in all the above Nantucket neighborhoods – just not forever. Contact our travel experts today!
