Menemsha

by Sam

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We woke up in the morning with the intention of taking bikes across the island, from Oak Bluffs to Aquinnah, but the weather gods had other plans for us. Instead, we jumped on the bus, maneuvering our way from the airport, to West Tisbury, through Chilmark, and eventually landing at the old fishing village of Menemsha. By then, it had stopped raining, but the haze remained. The harbor, quiet, but alive. Children fishing on the pier, families climbing across the jetty. Colors reflectinh naturally on the water, radiating against the pale blues and greys. It was misty, breezy. Hazy, as if we had accidentally stepped across the threshold into an alternate dimension. A fantasy land where the only noise is the sound of fishermen unloading their catch. 

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