The Long Way Home

Eastern Airlines served the Boston-NYC-Washington circuit throughout the 1960s as the premier shuttle airline between those three cities. A billboard at the entrance to Logan Airport promoted a $11 commute flight to La Guardia. I earned that sum every week on my paper route and dreamed about purchasing a ticket to the Big Apple, however when my father announced a trip to Manhattan in the spring of 1964, our method of transportation was the family station wagon. I begged him to take my mother, older brother, and myself by the Lockheed Constellation.

"I'll even pay for them." I had about $200 in the bank.

"That money's for college." My father believed in higher education. He was an engineer for New England Telephone. His company had requested his presence for a meeting. "You're lucky you're going at all."

We drove down that week from Boston. The trip took four hours. My father had booked us into the Hotel Manhattan. We saw the Rockettes, the Empire State Building, and ate at Tad's Steak House. We got lost on the way out of town. The Bowery was lined with flophouses and drunk men. Several were sleeping on the sidewalk.

"Are they dead?" I asked staring at one still fellow.

"No, just drunk. You don't study and you'll end up like them."

My father didn't like New York. He was from Maine. Big cities were filled with strangers. Some of them were no good.

I had no cause to visit New York until a friend of mine from work invited me to see his sister in the East Village. The year was 1970. We hitchhiked from Mass. Avenue to the Bronx and rode the subway to Manhattan. I liked the city. It wasn't small like Boston. Over the course of the next few years I traveled to New York by train, bus, car, and thumb.

I moved to New York in 1976. A stolen car straight down 95.

I must have made that trip several hundred times over the past 35 years. I'd flown a few times, but mostly trained to Route 128 since that was close to my parents' house on the South Shore. I know every route possible, but there was always one which evaded me.

New York-Montauk-Block Island-Point Judith-Providence-Boston.

The long way home.

My father packed his six kids and my mother into the station wagon at least twice during the summer to drive someplace far from our split-level ranch house on the South Shore; Bennington, Bar Harbor, Virginia Beach, Williamsburg as well as an assortment of destinations closer to home. We never went to Block Island lying 13 miles south off Rhode Island and 14 miles east of Montauk Point and when I told my younger sister that I was planning a commute by sea, she immediately volunteered to meet in Old Shoreham for a bike excursion around the island.

The first segment of the trip was a departure from Brooklyn's Atlantic Terminal, barely three minutes from Fort Greene. I arrived at the ticket machine 10 minutes before the 11:42 train. The holiday queue was 9 minutes long. I made the train with a minute to spare and arrived at Jamaica Station before the Penn Station train. The AC was pleasant and my seat companion was a young intern from Duke. She was planning to be a finance wizard. I wished her good luck and said nothing about my plot to overthrow capitalism.

My good friend AC was waiting at the Easthampton station.

The next ferry was in the morning, so we had arranged an evening of drinking and dining with a realtor living in the north woods with his wife and daughters. The four of us polished off a feast of oysters, swordfish, and tuna as well as swilling 8 bottles of wine and a couple of William's famous drinks.

I missed the morning ferry without raising my head from the pillows.

The rest of the 3th of July was spent recuperating at the beach and then a BBQ at Crazy Irish Johnny's house.

I missed the next morning ferry with ease.

The 4th of July was a light one; beaching at Louse Point and dinner at a well-heeled restaurant with a business associate, his beautiful wife, and an equally beautiful guest. I still can't remember what I ate, but the next morning I got out of bed and dressed before 7am.

There was a bus leaving East Hampton at 7:42. I was on it. The other passengers were mostly Mexicans working on lawns while plotting to overthrow the gringos. I arrived at the Montauk docks at 8:30. The ferry departure was scheduled for 10. It was on time and the Viking King cut a wake across the channel between Montauk and Block Island in a little over an hour.

The captain had a little difficulty docking in the New Harbor due to winds. The taxi ride to the Old Harbor cost $4 and I reached the pier on time to see my sister and her 15 year-old daughter roll their bicycles off the fast ferry.

I see you're ready for a bike tour of the island." My sister pointed to my attire.

"I'll change into my outfit." I was wearing a sports jacket and khakis. The rest of the island was uniformed in tee-shirts and shorts. At 59 I feel an obligation to dress smart. Someone has to in this ages of bums.

Several minutes later I emerged from the men's room in appropriate gear. Tee-shirt and shorts like the rest of the hoi polloi. I rented a wide-tire cruising bike. My niece asked, "Where's your helmet?"

"Errr." It was a good question and I replied, "They didn't have any."

"Hogwash." My sister doesn't believe anything that I say. She is a lawyer. They make their living listening to lies.

"No matter." I started before them, as her daughter wanted an ice cream before setting off. I reached the lighthouse before them and anyone else. The old clunker was a good ride, especially after I discovered it had more than one gear. The circumnavigation of the hilly part of the island was a three-hour slog through verdant green pasture walled by stones. Lemonade stands dotted the route. The sun was bright and my skin was reddening with every hour on the road.

Our destination was the Oar on the New Harbor. My sister and I ate lobster rolls and drank $2 Narragansett draft beers. They were cold. Her daughter had more lemonade and sushi. They were biked out and went to Crescent Beach while I trudged to the northern end of the island. The vista from Settler's Rock was an exquisite maritime melange of sea and shore. I biked back to the beach and swam in the ocean. It was cold.

We returned to the ferry landing and changed into respectable clothing. My sister and niece wanted to do some shopping and I retreated to the Harborside Inn for my 4th Narragansett of the day. They were growing on me.

$3.50

The fast ferry skipped atop the waves. A 30 minute journey ending at Point Judith. My sister drove her Audi A6 to her house near 128 in less than an hour. We took a dip in her pool. I spoke with her husband for a few minutes and then crashed in their basement on a blow-up bed. I was exhausted and slept from 9pm to 7am. A good 10 hours. My sister dropped me at the 128 station and I boarded the commuter train from Providence headed into South Station.

The trip lasted 34 minutes.

No one was there to greet me on completion of my epic voyage by train, bus, ferry, and car. I approximated the actual travel time to be about 7-8 hours, as I walked from the train to the Fung Wah Bus. I bought the last ticket for the 11am bus. I sat next to an old Chinese man. The only other seat was with a fat Arab woman. She was happy with her choice and I slept all the way to New York.

5 hours.

Not the fastest trip ever, but I now knew the longest.

4 days from door to door.

The long way home.