Not a town, village, county or state, Martha’s Vineyard is an island, large enough to hold six wholly independent New England towns, yet small enough to sail around in an afternoon.
There’s no bridge or tunnel to reach us. You take the ferry, and when you dock, you feel like you’ve gone somewhere. Your spirit lifts as your pace slows. You’re on Island.
Each of the Island’s towns is culturally different, independent to a fault, and indifferent to the others. Down Island, you are in Edgartown, Oak Bluffs, or Vineyard Haven. These are the main population and commerce centers. Up Island, you are in Aquinnah, Chilmark, or West Tisbury. These towns are rural and primarily residential.
We weren’t always an island. Martha's Vineyard was a great coastal plain and, to summer here, you had to walk. This is going back about 10,000 years. In the warmer months, as large animals migrated to our forests, hunters had a field day tracking truly big game—mammoths, mastodons, caribou, and elk. But with time, a lot changed.
The climate moderated. Glaciers melted and seas rose. 5,000 years passed and the Vineyard became ocean-bounded. You needed a boat to get here. Natives dug out logs and created the first ferries. You could paddle to the mainland, do a little trading, and get back in several weeks. Lagoons, bays, and marshes replaced old glaciers. Sturgeon and cod filled the seas. Men got addicted to fishing.
Martha's Vineyard life was active. Venison, seal, whale, turtle, and assorted fish and shellfish were all on the menu, not to mention garden vegetables and locally-grown nuts and berries. The population grew. Islanders set up summer wigwams. Some created small farmsteads. At first, there were hundreds. Later, thousands lived here.
Exploring, and having taken the time to set anchor and meet with some of the locals, Giovanni da Verrazano reported back to Europe. The place was exceptional, he told them. “These people are the most beautiful and have the most civil customs that we have found on this voyage,” he reported. Bartholomew Gosnold followed later and named our Island Martha’s Vineyard.
We have one blinking traffic light. Franchises don’t exist. The Jeep is shedding paint but it still goes. Shopkeepers, innkeepers, boat builders, cooks, selectmen, farmers, and fishmongers abound.
Europeans discovered and began farming and fishing the Island some four hundred years ago. They mounted canons on whale boats to attack the British in the American Revolution. Today, hoary farmer’s walls crisscross up-Island fields at Beetlebung Corner and Menemsha men live still by hook, net, drag, and harpoon.
Life on Martha’s Vineyard changes month to month like scenes in a play. January clutches last year. February is as cold and quiet as the deep sea. In April, Mom returns from Naples. By June, wild Cosmos are abloom, farmers are haying, local shops are bustling, and at Katama, Lucy Vincent, Squibnocket and Philbin, intrepid dippers begin to test the surf. A renaissance. August gets packed perfectly and September quiets quickly, which is perfect too.
Seascape, landscape, and wild ones aplenty, Martha’s Vineyard is a wonder for such a speck.