Sitting in the darkness at the water’s edge at Falmouth Beach on Cape Cod on Wednesday, September 22, 2021, I gazed into the night and almost felt as if I were aboard a ship at sea. I could have been on the bridge wing of the Rigel or the Waccamaw or the Victoria or the Bartlett. Overhead, the full Moon shone down on the surf and sand from the west. In the south, the constellation Orion, with its navigational stars Rigel and Betelgeuse, hung in the heavens just offshore of Martha’s Vineyard. This great island, with its omnipresent cloud cover, loomed large but subtle on the southwest horizon, a dark gray mass on a darker sea and sky. Additional stars interspersed with cumulus clouds dotted the sky in all directions. A cool breeze from the south hurried across the black expanse of Vineyard Sound, and on the beach the calm rush of the wind combined with the gentle landing of the waves to produce a musical harmony capable of lulling one to sleep.
But I had not come to sleep. Instead, I had made the twenty minutes’ walk through dark and deserted residential streets from the Mariner Motel to Falmouth Beach to look upon the sea at night, to watch the night become twilight, and to see the Sun rise out of the sea and usher in the new day. I had witnessed this on the 4:00 to 8:00 morning watch aboard ship many times. I had also spent many hours in the dark on the 12:00 to 4:00 night watch. On both schedules, I always enjoyed seeing the stars in the firmament overhanging the ocean, and when sailing coastwise, seeing the navigational lights beckoning seaward.
Three such lights shared navigational duty tonight. Two miles to the southwest, the Nobska Lighthouse flashed white every five seconds. Four and a half miles to the southeast, the East Chop Lighthouse on Martha’s Vineyard flashed red every six seconds. And closest to me at a half mile to the east, the breakwater light marking the entrance to Falmouth Harbor flashed green every three seconds. Finally, a small scattering of street and window lamps contributed their soft luster.
As on a many a dark night at sea, the black canvas of this dark night at the seashore was punctuated by starlight, moonlight, shore lights, and diligently flashing navigational lights. It was a masterpiece of both divine creation and human habitation. The night had an ambiance that was palpable and distinct and spiritual. It was quiet, but for the sounds of wind and wave, yet it spoke volumes at the sublime level, far above human speech. The magnificence of the night at the seashore was ineffable.
Like any form of perishable art, however, it could not last. Fifty minutes before sunrise, the first faint stirrings of daylight appeared on the eastern horizon. Light gray at first, then a gradually brightening and spreading luminosity replaced the darkness of the night. The stars faded into invisibility. The Moon, soon to set in the west, lost some of its brilliance. The sea and sky changed from black to several shades of blue. Precisely at 6:30am, the upper limb of the Sun emerged in the east from below the horizon. The night watch ended, and the day watch began.
I was no longer alone, as several other folks had come to the waterfront during the interval of twilight to watch the sunrise. Some remained in their cars and drove away, presumably to work, after the big event. Others stood on the beach or sat on the seawall, some in small groups and some alone. A few stayed and continued to gaze upon the sea as the Sun rose higher in the sky and the brilliance of the daylight increased. Seagulls, ducks, and cormorants emerged from their nocturnal hiding places and began swimming and flying in search of food. On the water, the ferries Island Home and Katama emerged from their overnight berths in Woods Hole and Vineyard Haven. The first voyages of the new day were beginning.
I began the business of the day by returning to the Mariner Motel through streets no longer dark and deserted but humming with activity. Miss Patty and I had places to go and things to do, and we needed to get underway. Whatever the day ahead would bring, it had already started in a most outstanding way. Spending much of the night almost but not quite at sea enabled me to commune with the cosmos and experience an epiphany. Tomorrow and the next day I would return to Falmouth Beach and stand the night watch all over again.
Now for some pictures. Joseph Conrad once described England as a place “where men and sea interpenetrate.”[1] The same can be said of Cape Cod. With a centuries-long history of seafaring, the Cape in our time is home to such sea-associated learned institutions as the Marine Biological Laboratory, the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, and just across the canal, the Massachusetts Maritime Academy. The Falmouth and Woods Hole Public Libraries offer books on maritime history and display nautical artwork created by local artists. The Steamship Authority’s fleet connects Cape Cod with Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. Additionally, private ferries, recreational yachts, and fishing boats are ubiquitous.
In our first photograph, we see the Nobska Lighthouse at dusk on Tuesday, September 21. This is the largest of the lights that “shineth in darkness” (John 1:5) over Vineyard Sound.
On the same day but before dusk, we see the ferry Island Home plying her route between Woods Hole and Martha’s Vineyard. Here, she is just off Nobska Point.
Next, my favorite of all the art works in the Woods Hole Public Library is this beautiful model of the iconic British clipper ship Cutty Sark. I had discovered this treasure previously and returned on Friday, September 24, to photograph it.
Finally, on the same Friday, we visited the statue of Rachel Carson, the famous marine biologist and author of books about the sea, which graces Waterfront Park in Woods Hole.
