There haven’t been many rainy days on Chappy this summer. Some sprinkles, but frugally distributed like a greedy ice cream vendor. I suspect most are okay with this paltry precipitation, and I like the sunshine as much as the next guy, but I need my rainy days. Firstly, my grass children tend to thrive when their home is wet, and I love my green kids, so I am happy when they’re happy. Secondly, and moreover, I need the excuse to go dark, to hunker down with a book — held captive by the forbidding closeness of nature.

Apparently no one got the memo regarding taking one’s shoes off before stepping on the new Chappy Point pavement—it’s presently all scuffed up and has lost its luster. The seagulls, noticing our disregard, renewed their shell droppings too. Just can’t have anything nice here.

Writing the Chappy column is an exercise in recollection — what the heck happened this week? And the exercise continues as one then tries to then make interesting those recollections.

We are the visited, the indigenous Islanders. We own mansions, castles, thatched huts (there must be at least one somewhere up-Island), garage apartments, condos, converted barns, Spider Shacks (maybe just me), bungalows and bodegas. And they know it. And they are coming.

Once again, I’ve been scooped. The most important event of any Chappy spring – the blooming of the shad – took place on Peter’s watch.

I saw some deer on the side of the paved road by the lonely Bass cottage on the “other side of the road.” They weren’t doing much, just sort of milling about, and it looked liked they might want to talk.

As the sole groundskeeper for The Royal & Ancient Chappaquiddick Links (yes that is a real place), allow me to offer the following tips on how to best prepare your golf course for the coming season.

The trouble with sharing weekly column duties (beside the obvious issues of ego) is that one can’t depend on one’s colleague not to hog all the good stories. What more can be said about the closing of the breach or the ferry that hasn’t already been written by Peter? Not much. And without those two topics, I’m left with what follows:

Looking out at the sea, particularly at night, I get a distinct sense that there is something so much greater than I.

For those who can’t fathom a winter on Chappy, especially this winter, I say “you get used to it.” If this were a day in late September, temps hovering around freezing, I’d be bundled in layers of sweaters.