The Bay State, like the Old Line State that preceded it in the chronology of our lives, is a big and beautiful place. In the short time we’ve lived here, we’ve already explored upland forests and rolling hillsides, glaciated farmlands and kettle ponds, peat bogs and marsh fens, and rocky coastlines dotted by seaside towns. Through the act of photographing, I’m starting to see our new home for the complicated, awe-inspiring land that it is. Complicated, because it has very much complicated my attempts to rapidly fall in love with it, to quickly plug the deep pit of homesickness I still feel for Baltimore. Rather than the sense of re-discovery and adventure and newfound freedom I hoped the move would bring, my past four months have been colored by pain and conflict. Like a heart being tugged in one too many directions, a mind cluttered by a few too many memories. How can you replace something you’ve not truly left behind? Like Lot’s wife, is there no turning back? And what does it mean to go forward instead? I suppose I should know a thing or two about these questions. I’m experiencing, I believe, what my profession calls a grief reaction. Most mornings now, I think that to myself, and laugh, and sigh. I’m still working through it.
This October morning’s outing, tucked between both of our 30th birthdays, is my latest attempt at working through it. Driving north and east out of the city, we enter Essex County and Cape Ann, a finger of land pointing boldly into the Atlantic, fabled for its beaches, bays, and fishing villages. Just before sunrise, we arrive at West Beach on the outskirts of Beverly. The private beach’s lot is closed this early in the morning, so Jane parks the car on Main Street in Beverly Farms, while I hop out and set up near the beach’s ruined jetty. It is just past high tide, and the wooden beams in the sand look quite picturesque against the falling surf and the rising sun. As the sky and its blanket of cirrus clouds lighten through shades of maroon and mauve and lavender, I turn my attention to long shots of the outlying Misery Islands, which dot the bay to the south. To the east, a majestic oak tree on Chubb Point is becoming beautifully silhouetted against the morning light, and buoys are clanging beneath the distant harbor light of Manchester-by-the Sea. The scene is magical, to say the least.
After shooting for over an hour, I walk with Jane back to the car, over the tracks of the commuter rail in Beverly Farms. We continue our drive eastward, over the Annisquam River, to the town of Rockport at the cape’s very tip. Rockport’s beautiful little harbor, oft-visited by tourists, is still a draw even on this early Saturday morning in the COVID era; we see more than a few neck-slung cameras and fanny packs milling around. We walk the mostly deserted streets, stopping by the Roy Moore Lobster shack for delicious bowls of chowder, smoked salmon, clam and fish cakes, and an obligatory roll. Best cheat day breakfast, ever. After our meal, a little more browsing, during which Jane buys a baseball cap, and I buy a fridge magnet and a tuxedo cat doll that reminds me of Honeydew (may the silky fellow rest in pieces). And then, a gas stop and the hour-long drive back to Boston, passing the multitude of Salem-bound traffic in the other direction.
