Good afternoon, faithful Outpost readers. It’s me again: ol’ Uncle John.
Too creepy? Let me start over.
Happy Wednesday! I’m not sure if it’s the eight hours of sleep I got last night, the Diet Coke coursing through my veins, or the weather, but I am feeling uncharacteristically energized today.
May is my favorite month, mainly because I love watching New England unfurl itself like a carpet brought down from the attic. The hillsides shiver with greenery, streams and rivers swell from fresh rain, lawns are cut, flower beds are packed with mulch, and windows are opened to usher in softer evenings.
Everything and everyone is in bloom, and Outpost is no exception.
We’ve had some killer pieces hit the Journal this past week. The ever-prolific Ashton Clancy posted a wonderful write-up on the popular Dimes Square restaurant, Bar Belly, complete with an interview with owner and operator, Tommy Mendes. Outpost contributor Alex Bennett channeled his inner Norman Maclean and penned an essay about catching a monster striped bass with his brother. Ryan took us home with Outpost’s first List of Best 100 NYC Restaurants, which made my mouth water and my wallet shudder.
With change and trials on the mind, I want to share an anecdote with you all from this past weekend while I was visiting Nantucket.
Each year, two old friends and I make the pilgrimage to the Gray Lady in mid-May as a way to reconnect. And by reconnect, I mean planting ourselves in the same three chairs for 48 hours while we overindulge in junk food, beer, and “remember when” stories.
This year, however, we decided to eschew the college porch routine for something a bit more adult—a harbor cruise aboard my friend’s boat. Don’t get me wrong, there was still plenty of beer, junk food, and reminiscing; we just thought the change of scenery would be nice.
So, on Saturday morning, we loaded the boat with towels, fishing rods, and a variety of coolers, then bumped across the windy harbor trying to pretend we weren’t cold. Eventually, we found a sheltered cove to drop anchor, and what followed were two glorious hours of swimming, casting, and general reverie.
When we had our fill, we dried ourselves off, packed up the mess, lifted anchor, and began our journey back home. However, our three college-educated brains did not anticipate the dropping tide.
When the engine hit the bottom the first time, we thought we had just scooted over a particularly unruly whitecap. When it happened the second time, we chalked it up to unseen an clump of seaweed. When we came to a dead stop, there was no more pretending.
Being the macho man I am, I volunteered to wrestle with the engine and push us off the sandbar, so I hiked up my shorts and plunged into the water, muttering things about “torque,” “rotors,” and other engine-y sounding lingo.
With the sun dropping, panic began to set in, and it took all three of us pushing and heaving against the stern before the boat was finally freed from our sandbar prison.
That ride back was a silent one, but when we finally moored the boat and waded to shore, we slipped into a fit of laughter.
The short summary of this story is that my friends and I are idiots. No debating that. But when I was doubled over on the beach, I couldn’t help but think of Outpost.
Doing something new or untested is always a gamble. Sure, you might hit some bumps along the way, but as long as you make it back to shore in one piece—and having learned something—the next trip out should (hopefully) be smooth sailing.
So, with summer rapidly approaching, we are committed to delivering content to keep you entertained between sunscreen applications and sips of your Aperol spritzes. But, as always, be our channel markers so we don’t run aground—let us know if there is anything you want to see more (or less) of.
Except me. I’m here to stay. Sorry.
More soon,
John Sargent
Editor
Outpost
