It’s September 4, 2016 and I’m alone in the water of Mattapoisett Harbor, alone and sliding through the very cool water at town beach.

The ocean has seemed cooler this summer than last. My swimming partner, who is not with me today, says the same thing. In spite of days of heat, our pilgrimages to the sea have found us experiencing cool water temperatures. We are undaunted. She usually is dressed from head to ankle in sun-screening garments meant to protect her delicate skin from damaging sunlight, and I, I’m in my wetsuit.

I get a fair number of funny looks from people, especially on hot days as I slip into the welcoming waters off Ned’s Point wearing my wetsuit. I don’t care. All I care about is getting into that water, using my aching body in ways I would never be able to on land, feeling the lack of gravity on a crooked spine, on a pair of stressed-out feet and a soul quite weary and yearning for this release.

She and I call Ned’s Point our church, our spiritual healing place, our sanctuary. In the height of summer, and in spite of high ambient temperatures, we are on many occasions the only ones swimming. All the more for us, we think. It is ours. Other times we share it with like-minded people who have found, as we have, that this tiny beach, open to the currents of Buzzards Bay and beyond, is transporting and I think, necessary.

We stay in the water until our fingers are puckered and numb. Like children unwilling to stop their play, we haul ourselves out attesting to what grand fun it was and promises of doing it again tomorrow. We pay close attention to the tide charts finding those days and times where our shore-side responsibilities may be put aside because the tide will be in and we must enter our water world.

I do not really swim as others do. My body is restricted in several ways, but I get it to cooperate in a frog-kick-water-treading fashion that ever so slowly propels me along. It is enough and I’m grateful.

She and I talk about all sorts of things as we bob around in the surf like castoff wine corks no longer needed. She sometimes brings a list of talking points so our conversations are always interesting and fresh. We’ve come to learn that we share a great many ideas in common, and on those where we may deviate, our independent natures allow room for cheerful debate.

On days when our schedules may not line up, when she or I may not have the opportunity to join in restful union at our “church of what’s happening now,” we still jump into the water and enjoy the solitude.

September 4, 2016, I alone am in the water. It’s noontime, the church bells announce, as it echoes over town beach. It is Labor Day weekend and the beach is deserted. The masses have ebbed away on their tidal surges back to their cities and towns, jobs, schools, schedules and demands of modern life, while I am here gliding along, absorbed in the sky above, the gulls that soar, and the sensation of saltwater keeping me afloat as my thoughts drift away.

Yesterday, my friend was here at town beach with a grandchild. How many generations have come here to enjoy the calm shoreline with small children in tow? She said her husband and his son swam out far towards the raft, staying there a long time talking together in communion with each other and the water’s movement. How many fathers and sons have washed away the past to embrace the now and plan the future in these waters?

But today I am alone in the water, and I let the fears that rob my bliss wash away unspoken except to the universe. I think in a few more minutes I should get out because today the air and the sea are both rather cool for these aging bones, but I glide on unwilling and unable to leave just yet. The weight of all I carry waits on the shore, waits on the shore for us all.

In the water where dreams and hopes blend in perfect proportions, I am renewed, refreshed, and reminded of my place and the importance of simply being in the moment – this moment where I am in harmony with nature and have been anointed by the water.

By Marilou Newell

With the threat of advancing hurricane winds bearing down on Shipyard Park, Seth Mendell’s September 4 lecture on the history of the Elizabeth Islands was moved from that scenic perch to the Mattapoisett Historical Society Museum.

As the audience grew, many sat in the narrow balcony that flanks the tiny gallery. All were transported to another space in time when ships and commerce, trading partners, and pirates roamed the open waters between New Bedford, Boston, Cuttyhunk, Martha’s Vineyard, and exotic places far beyond.

It was a fortuitous move from the outdoor venue as Mendell was able to use the enormous Ashley map that graces the facing interior wall behind the pulpit. Armed with his mighty laser pointer, he spoke to the packed house while aiming the pointer at references along the map.

And he began at the very beginning…

Mendell took the group back in time to the very formation of the island chain. Their creation, although directly related to glacial movement, was from the gravel and soils that were entombed inside the frozen water. While the glaciers pushed and pulled the earth from beneath, they also deposited many megatons of material as they melted away.

The islands make up the town of Gosnold and are comprised of seven major islands: Nonamesset, Uncantena, Naushon, Pasque, Nasawena, Penikese, and Cuttyhunk. There are another 15 lesser ones for a total of 22 in all.

“It’s hard to say where the first people came from,” Mendell said as he began to populate the now fully formed islands. He said the Wampanoag Indians inhabited the islands, as had an earlier people who left behind topographical evidence.

“The first white man to land there was Barthomele Gosnold in June 1602,” Mendell said. “He landed on Cuttyhunk as he sailed the area for his Queen, Queen Elizabeth.” Thus the islands were named after the English queen. “He named Martha’s Vineyard after his daughter it is believed,” he added.

Mendell said Gosnold had planned to set up a colony as the British were wont to do wherever they landed, but, “He ran out of supplies, so after about three or four weeks they loaded up the ship with sassafras roots and cedar logs and hightailed it back to England.”

From that point, Mendell talked about the great Pilgrim migration between 1620 and 1630 when approximately 75,000 Europeans sailed here with 15,000 alone landing in the Bay Colony – Boston.

King James the First, who ruled after Elizabeth, “didn’t want to be bothered with the islands,” Mendell said. “He gave them to the Council of New England.” They, in turn, promptly sold them off to a Thomas Mayhew. Mayhew had also been negotiating with the Wampanoags from whom he purchased Naushon in 1654.

The islands changed hands a number of times, but in 1730 it was sold to James Bowdoin and his family who owned it for 113 years. While at one time the islands were valued for the timber, once denuded from over harvesting, sheep were raised for wool. Bowdoin employed as many as twenty tenant farm families to tend the sheep. “Tarpaulin Cove had become a center of activity,” Mendell said.

Pirates added to the richness and fun of Mendell’s brief history. Due to the amount of commercial shipping taking place throughout Buzzards Bay and surrounding waters, merchant ships were ripe for the picking. Thus, such scalawags as Thomas Pound, Thomas Hawkins, and William Kidd grabbed all they could.

This caused the merchants who were being robbed to petition for help from Boston. The powers that be deployed armed British ships to the island chain in 1669 led by a Captain Pierce. “A pitched battle ensued, and the pirates were captured and sent to Newport where they were hung,” Mendell said.

As time went on, business and local populations grew. Farmers mixed with sailors and one account from those days memorialized it this way: “In the evening, there was much frolicking about…” Mendell said with a chuckle.

Prior to the outbreak of the American Revolution in 1775, many lighthouses were built along the shores of Buzzards Bay, Mendell said, due to the vast amount of maritime activity taking place.

During the war itself, Mrs. Bowdoin asked for help from the council in Boston. She wrote, “They have abused inhabitants, stolen ships, and taken sheep and wool…” Before the war ended, the British would burn both New Bedford and Falmouth to the ground, Mendell said.

The Forbes family has owned the islands since the mid-1800s. A family trust still owns the property today. The 1998 census reports that there are 359 Forbes heirs.

The first Forbes to live on the islands was John Murray Forbes. He called the place “an unspoiled jewel” and set about making improvement such as better drainage, stone walls to hold the sheep in certain locations, and the planting of thousands of trees to aid in erosion control. After a while, he would buy out all remaining Bowdoin heirs.

As a side note, Mendell said he always tried to follow the money when exploring the history of famous people. As for the Forbes family, their income came from trading between New England and Alaskan native tribes where seal and sea otter pelts were obtained and then taken to China and traded for tea and silk. Of the Chinese he said, “They loved those pelts.” Of the Forbeses he said, “They made a killing on tea and silk.”

When the government wanted to set up a penal colony on Nashawena in 1904, Malcolm Forbes bought that island to keep it from becoming “something they didn’t want,” Mendell said. The Forbes family had been good stewards of the island, said Mendell, preventing their beauty from being sullied by commercial development.

By Marilou Newell