BRAD WOODGER

508-627-4216

(ibwsgolf@aol.com)

I learned early that life is full of disappointments (thanks, little league and school dances). And my tenure on Chappy has done little to dissuade those lessons of youth. Chappy has a way of reminding one of one’s limitations, and of punishing too-generous helpings of pride. Like an eyebrow-arching elder, Chappy is never surprised at my disappointment in failure — it just hopes I’ve learned a thing or two.

Being middle-aged as I am (I know, I look 20!), and living on this teenage boy’s paradise of an island, I have ample opportunity to test Chappy’s patience. I don’t think it is a secret that guys approaching 50 are hard-wired to sense the urgency to do every bit of physical foolishness they can before the hips, knees and will give out. And what better place to recreate those glory days than the very spot they originally tested these limits of mental and physical fortitude. Did you once swim from your dock to the green can and back? In 1979? Then surely you can do it again.

But I am wiser than most, that rare combination of brains and beauty, so I realize the folly of attempting the swims of my youth. Sure, I could do it, but if not with the same original élan and grace, then why bother? However, fishing off my paddle board seemed entirely doable. I once fished from a raft I’d built and navigated through the gut. I could surely do the same from my paddle board.

As I mentioned in a previous column, this adventure is much more facile than it may appear to the casual observer. Get on board. Paddle out to diving terns. Float with current. Cast into current. Reel in. No big deal. But it was not until this past Friday that more than a weed was hooked. This past Friday a blue was hooked, boarded and released. By me. The harbor master happened by at this very moment, so I have a witness — though from his vantage point, the blue probably appeared significantly smaller than its actual size. If I had so chosen, I could well have filleted the fish there on my board, and then cooked it up over a flint-lit fire of driftwood on the shores of Cape Pogue. If so desired.

Buoyed by this success, I set out again early Saturday morning. The terns this morning were diving considerably closer to the horizon than home, though, so my paddle out took me a good distance toward the red can and the J boats that were heading out to race. The day was gorgeous, the early sun hitting the slight chop so that the water glistened like a striper’s skin. I emerged among the terns after an hour paddle against the tide, my muscles taut from the exertion and in anticipation of battles yet to come (at least they felt that way, under some layers). The sailboats passed closely by me, near enough for me to almost read the captains’ lips: “Good gosh, Kip, that young man appears to be fishing from some sort of surfing device! And I thought we were sporty and handsome! That boy is positively dashing!” (From a slight distance I look young.)

Looking back, I think maybe my awareness of these boats may have been my ultimate downfall. Eager to live up to my obvious reputation, I may have overdone the artistic aspect of my fishing and underdone the practical aspect.

Long story short: I caught a large blue. I believe, despite its situation and struggles, the fish greatly respected my moxie and was glad to have been caught by such a worthy adversary. I brought the blue to the board with patient reeling, and then gracefully guided it on to the fiberglass surface of my paddle board. I extracted the pliers from my trunks’ back pocket with one hand whilst (yes, I said whilst) holding to befished rod with my other. Placing a shod foot on the blue, I swiftly removed said hook from the blue lip, all the while maintaining expert balance in the chop and holding steady to the pole. I then moved to gently nudge the fish from the board with my foot, at which time I also glanced over my shoulder, to see if this feat was being adequately admired by the yachtsmen.

Too many things at once.

I fell. Into the sea, kicking my board in one direction while wisely freeing myself of my way-too-pricey pole in the other direction. While my pole sank (to the great mirth of all sea life), I swam after my fleeing board and conspiring paddle. No dummy I, I left the bulky life jacket ashore so that I was free to swim with panicky ease toward my fading life raft. After a brief 10-minute swim and what may have been saltwater or tears flooding my lungs, I rescued my paddle and climbed back aboard my board. Yes, Hemingway would have been so proud.

Humbled, I returned to shore, resolute never to reproduce such folly. Two days later I found myself on my board at a dead end in a Cape Pogue salt marsh inlet, amidst what can accurately be described as an apocalyptic swarm of greenhead flies. No way out but through the poison ivy and brambles that so competently guard the border of North Neck Road, I discovered that poison ivy takes hold particularly well in abrasions and deep scratches.

So. Am I disappointed in my abilities? Yes. Am I tattered? Torn? Bruised inside and out? Yes. Have I learned a valuable Chappy lesson? I sincerely doubt it.

In other Chappaquiddick Community Center news:

Don’t forget, Friday (today!) is the Trustees of Reservation Snorkel Adventure for kids ages five to eight, at 10 a.m. Then Saturday there is the CCC annual meeting. Come hear what the CCC has been up to this past year and what they have planned for the future. Stay for the Boston Pops and a concert by Lady Gaga.

Sunday, of course, is the Chappy Pong table tennis tournament, which starts at 11 a.m. Arrive early to ensure the best seats. Then Thursday, sadly, is the last day of sailing . . . I think just for the CCC, but it could be the last day of sailing for anyone, anywhere. So please sail. Gratefully, tennis, yoga, tai chi, and mah-jongg all continue as scheduled. Thank goodness for life’s small consistencies.

On August 8 Liz Villard will lead a tour of three Chappaquiddick graveyards, to benefit the Chappaquiddick Community Center Cressy building fund. The tour will include the Native American burial ground on Jeffers Lane, the Methodist graveyard on North Neck Road, the descendents of the Pease family cemetery and, as a bonus, the single marked Native American grave behind the new graveyard across from the Community Center. Except for the Jeffers Lane cemetery, all of these sites are on private property and can only be visited on this tour. The tour costs $25 per person and begins at the CCC at 7 p.m. The Trustees of Reservations will provide transportation by van. The tour is limited to 20 people, with advanced reservations requested. Please call 508-627-8222 for information and to make a reservation. Though there are no ghosts on this tour, Liz says it’s probably not appropriate for kids under 12.

Peter Wells comes back on the column wagon for the next few weeks. Parting is, as always, such sweet sorrow. And, by the way, love is never having to say you’re sorry.