Hitchhiking and Fessin' up

Let me say here at the onset that I'm an Island outsider. As much as I might yearn to be one of the Island guys, I'm reconciled to my identity as "one of those guys you've seen around town a bunch of times but have no idea who he is". Outsiderness is no bowl of cherries, but I imagine being a "real islander" sometimes has it's down side as well.

To those of us who come and go, the island is full of impenetrable mysteries. We overhear snippets of conversation between real islanders in restaurants and check out lines that hint at a community life denied us. I certainly can understand why full timers would wish to retain some detachment from the constant ebb and flow of strangers.. After all, 650 of them are beset upon by the annual influx of summer residents and an untold numbers of day visitors. All of us are intensely curious about the island and about the people who live there.

I sometimes need to remind myself that actual islanders (particularly those whose livelihood does not obligate them to an endless recounting of what they and other islanders "do in the wintertime") are not necessarily in a state of perpetual leisure and may not be quite as available (or interested) in a lengthy exchange of personal histories as I am. In our defense as outsiders, we really can't help it, we just find you folks darned interesting. I also try to remind myself that not everyone I might wish to befriend has the time, interest, or need to initiate new friendships. I'm certainly not suggesting that I find islanders standoffish. To the contrary, I've found people here to be quite warm and personable. It's just the way it is in small communities. I was born and raised in a small community in Maine, I remember my grandparents referring to neighbors who'd lived nearby all of my life as " those new folks from Massachusetts or wherever". There really should be some sort of reciprocal agreement between places like my hometown and places like Washington Island that grants transfers to either "native status" on an expedited basis.

The smitten outsider's hope is to finagle their way into this impenetrable world. Sometimes, you just try too hard. I had such an experience not long ago.

I hadn't realized how difficult it was to get around on the Peninsula without a car. As best I can tell there is no simple way to do it, certainly no public means by which it can be traversed. I found myself in such a predicament not long ago. I needed to return a rental truck to Sturgeon Bay and then get back to the Island. Should you find yourself in such a predicament the options are few. I'm told that one can often turn up an Islander and a ride at the Sturgeon Wal Mart but this is less likely if you're not an Islander yourself. Aside from this, you can rent a car or hire a taxi. Both choices are ridiculously expensive.

So there I was, in a room at the Holiday Motel pondering my options, when it occurred to me that I could hitchhike back to the Island. This notion was one that held an odd appeal. As a much younger man I had been quite a fearless vagabond. Granted, most of that occurred 30 years ago, but heck, the thumb was still operable. Hitching in my time seemed a more innocent, predictable endeavor. It generally meant long periods of time on the side of the road as a disapproving middle America rolled by. Eventually that VW Microbus would crest the hill, and you could confidently shoulder your rucksack. The disaffected could always be counted on to take care of their own. It did occur to me that I hadn't seen a VW Microbus in quite some tune, but then, I hadn't really been looking either. So I called my wife and told her of my plan. Her response did give me pause."Dan you're fifty years old, people don't pick up hitchhikers anymore, especially fifty year old ones...you don't even pick up hitchhikers! You're gonna be out there till winter". But, I was still basking in those memories of my glory days and I wasn't to be dissuaded.

The next morning, I took my complimentary donuts and coffee out on the porch to map my strategy. I found a piece of cardboard and penned my hitchhiker attributes for the perusal of passing motorists. Finished, I sat my sign on the chair opposite me for a critical appraisal. It read: l. Reasonably good conversationalist 2. will contribute for fuel 3. No criminal history. It did occur to me that vehicles would be moving too fast to read my litany of virtues and besides, it seemed just the kind of ploy that a clever serial murderer might employ. Discarding my sign, I sipped my coffee and gave thought to plan B.

Off in the distance I could see the tops of masts bobbing in the harbor. Of course! What I needed to effect was that well healed, nautical look. That tussled, devil may care, young Bobby Kennedy, just tied up my dingy and now I'm hitching to get a cocktail, look. Fortunately, I had a pair of bright blue shorts in my bag. I also had a sweater which I tied around my neck in the fashion I recall seeing in J Crew advertisements. A worn pair of docksiders would have nailed the look but it was unlikely that motorists would see my feet anyway. I did compromise the purity of my plan somewhat by calling a taxi to take me to the junction of highways 42 and 57 ($11.00 for the sake of optimal placement seemed awfully pricey). Once there I affected the posture of a yachtsman with too many interesting things on his upscale mind to care whether the motorist stopped or not.

Now, here the truly interesting part of this tale. The first car, a large and expensive car, swerved to stop. The elderly gentleman at the wheel told me immediately that he never picked up hitchhikers, and he'd better not tell his wife he'd done so, but I seemed a decent sort. He took me to the far side of Jacksonport. It was a minute before another car came into view. This time a very expensive, foreign model. He drove by, then appeared to rethink his decision and pulled to the side of the road. He was even gracious enough to back up to get me. He was the editor of a fine gardening magazine of some sort, and he felt it important to tell me that he, like my previous benefactor, did not normally pick up hitchhikers. He dropped me on the far side of Baileys Harbor. It was here that a car actually went by me without as much as a hint of interest. The second car, however, a fellow delivering advertising publications, hesitated not at all. He indicated he was not permitted to pick up riders, but what the heck. He drove very fast, dropping me on the far side of Sister Bay across from the sailboats at bay. Now, I'm not making this up. The first car, a big luxury car, picked me up. Again, an elderly, obviously well healed, gentlemen who does not pick up hitchhikers. He took me to the heart of Ellison Bay. I decided to sit a spell on the bench in front of the little information station. No sooner had I sat down than a fellow emerged from the restaurant across the way and hollered over wondering if I needed a ride. He drove a beat up old truck and he told me he always stopped for hitchers. Despite the morning hour it seemed apparent that he often stopped for cocktails as well. In that the Ferry was close by, I chose to risk it. In this way I managed to get from Sturgeon to the Ferry in less time than it likely would have taken me to drive the distance. I think there is some interesting sociological truth to be gleaned from this experience, but I can't quite put my finger on it. I suspect it's pretty much the same dynamic that made those VW Microbus's feel obligated to take care of their own.

After a day or two back on the Island savoring my hitching triumph I realized I was still faced with the need to get myself back to Madison. Flush from my earlier success, I decided hitching back to Sturgeon Bay and renting a car was a reasonable plan. My strategy was to make a simple sign , board the ferry, and put myself in front of the unloading vehicles. This proved unnecessary as a ferryman noticed my sign and set in motion my deliverance. It happened that Dick Purinton and Arnie Richter were on the boat. They were headed to Sturgeon Bay to appear on a radio program about the ferryline. Dick
offered me a lift and phoned ahead to be certain that a rental car was available. Now a ride is one thing, but the opportunity for 90 minutes of the uninterrupted company of Mr. Richter is something else. On the way Arnie told me some of the history of the Ferry Line and of his own experiences as a younger man. It was during this pleasant drive that an incident occurred that I am grateful for the opportunity to put right today.

Now patient reader, I must digress for the purposes of providing you with some context for what you are about to read. The implicit bargain when one is bumming a ride is this. The decent hitcher is obliged to take the measure of the driver and carry his weight in the transaction. If the driver appears to prefer to ride in silence th e hitcher should shut up. If the driver wishes to chat it's the hitcher's obligation to be as entertaining as possible. The transient, anonymous nature of the encounter does not obligate the hitcher to a rigorous adherence to the truth. Though a wholesale fabrication of identity is never a good thing, a bit of embellishment in the interest of entertainment is generally viewed, in hitchhiking circles, to be OK.

So, there I was riding along with Dick and Arnie Richter listening to these almost mythic stories of the early days of the Ferryline, when it popped out. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, I heard myself tell Dick and Arnie that I had met my wife on the Eyrarbakki Ferry. Now this is not something that had been rattling around in my mind, nor do I ever recall thinking such a thing before. When these words escaped my mouth I wished immediately to retract them. I could see that Dick was quite taken with this account, remarking that he'd not heard this particular Ferry anecdote before.

What the heck was I thinking! I'm not generally given to fabricating reality out of whole cloth. A bit of embellishment in the interest of a good story sure, but this was no transient, anonymous hitchhiking encounter. These were gentlemen I respected and hoped to have a neighborly relationship with in the future. I guess in my defense, I could say that my wife and I did ride on that boat in the very early days of our courtship, and that the ride did contribute appreciably to sealing the deal between us but, that's a different thing altogether. No, let me stop searching for a lame defense of this. Arnie, Dick , that statement was utter and complete balderdash, pure unmitigated poppycock , a shameful bit of horsepucky. Whew! I'm glad I got that off my chest. I'm hoping someone out there actually did meet there wife on the ferry and will call Dick and replace my fraudulent claim with an authentic Ferry love story.

The charitable reader is perhaps thinking, well at least Dan felt obliged to set the record straight. He apparently is an individual of conscience who was not comfortable allowing this bit of balderdash to stand. Well charitable readers, in this incident, as in so many others, things are not quite so clear-cut. You see, my wife and I were having coffee a while after the incident described above, when Dick happened into the coffeehouse. I introduced my wife to Dick and in the course of visiting a bit he said something to my wife about our meeting on the Eyrarbakki. My wife was, of course, at a loss to respond and looked to me to somehow help her with a response. Dick, being the gentlemen that he is, seemed to sense that the account he'd put to her was causing her an awkward moment. He graciously changed the topic. The reader is left to speculate whether the author would have come clean had he not essentially been found out. The author is similarly left to wonder.