West Bay, North Bay, Fancy’s and Wimpy’s.

   It’s a beautiful morning in Osterville. The sun, not quite free of the horizon, is washing this cloudless North Bay scene in a pleasing muted glow. A hunting osprey’s call-cheeop cheeop cheeop-pierces the predawn quiet; he has been busy feeding his young, rapidly growing family. Working fisherman are busy as well, boating to and fro in their small skiffs; all day long they will stand thigh deep in the salty shallows of West Bay, tugging their long-handled shellfish rakes through the soft sand. My shoulders ache just looking at them.
Our slip at the Nauticus Marina, right next to the bascule bridge, is perfect for boat watching. As usual, we’re “bow in” so that the aft-deck faces the water. Downtown Osterville, less than a mile from the marina, is cute as a button, and has everything a boater could want. Our provisions are low, so we unfold our bikes at the dock and head out to the adorable Fancy’s Market, where we make the rookie mistake of shopping while starving. Inside the market they’re frying up peppers and onions in butter, and baking racks of fresh bread. We’re still salivating as we load the bikes like pack mules with not only enough food and supplies for a week, but all kinds of kooky junk food. Back at the boat, I immediately tear off four inches of crusty baguette, slather it with way too much Land O Lakes, and munch away with such zeal it makes Susan gasp and call me “cave man Rick.”  The next day on a bike ride, we are stopped at the border of Osterville Grand Island. Apparently, the place is so snooty, they have security guards posted on the only road in. If you’re not on the list, you get turned away. For a brief moment, we consider zooming right by the uniformed guard while he’s busy checking a car.
“What’s he gonna do, chase us on foot, shoot us in the back?”
“I don’t see any guns, but maybe they have dogs. Maybe they have alarms and flashing lights like a Stalag in an old war movie.” We both laugh at the thought of it.
“Wait a minute, they wouldn’t have to chase us; the only road in is also the only road out.” The logic is inescapable; we canned the idea and turned around.
“Hey! We could take the dinghy and find a landing spot near a road.”
“Yeah! Storm the beaches!”   We decided to forgo the criminal activities and find a nice pub instead, preferably one with fried seafood, onion rings, and ice-cold local beers. Like moths to a flame, our bikes practically drove themselves to my favorite Osterville eatery.   “Sure beats a night in the ol’ Grey Bar Hotel,” I say between artery-hardening bites. But the best is yet to come; I can’t wait to get back to the boat and light up that big, fat, Ashton cigar the XO gave me for my birthday. That and a snifter of brandy is a perfect way to celebrate my sixty-second year on the planet.