Shore Shenanigans
My wonderful Darlin’ Boy recently took me to the Eastern shore of Virginia for a weekend to see the ponies and enjoy a little peace and quiet. It was just beautiful and we had a wonderful time. It did, however, spark the memory of the only other time I have been in that area of Virginia.
From the annals of Stupid Husband stories
A number of years ago, when I was still somewhat married to Beau’s father, he decided he would plan a weekend getaway for us. He has a penchant for seafood and had read somewhere about the abundance of fresh seafood on the island of Tangier which is in the Chesapeake Bay. Tangier, founded in the 1600s, was touted as being a quaint village with locals that still speak Elizabethan English due to their general isolation—you can only get there by boat or plane.
This was in late July or early August, if memory serves, and it was supposed to be “romantic”. The trip turned out to be everything but romantic which pretty much sums up my entire relationship with the ex—but that’s another story for another day.
Our trip began with the long drive from the western part of the state to the ferry dock on the bay—I don’t care for long car trips for starters. When we arrived at the Marina that hosted the ferry, we were directed to park the car, mine to be specific, over by some dilapidated boats. As the breeze wafted the scent of rotting fish to my nose I saw the ferry approaching.
We made our way on board and took the hour or so ride on the vessel which looked as if this might be it’s last voyage altogether. Since we had left home in the wee hours in order to make the long drive, we had not eaten in some time and, of course, the ex didn’t believe in stopping when driving for fear some other car on the highway might “lap him”. (Everything is a competition with the ex, don’t cha’ know!)
When I mentioned the late hour and my growing hunger, I was regaled with descriptions of the sumptuous seafood feast we would have once we arrived on the island. My hopes of enjoying such a repast were completely dashed upon our arrival and my first view of our destination.
The dock was, quite literally, falling apart. The shanties on the pier were decrepit. And, most obvious, was the appearance this island apparently had no plan for trash removal or a local dump, so people just dumped garbage wherever they found convenient. The populace believed that everywhere was convenient.
The waters surround the docks were filled with tires, old lawn mowers, spare parts to various types of equipment, grocery store shopping carts, bicycles, etc. Upon disembarking from the ferry, I nervously queried where we were supposed to go, where we were staying and where all the fabulous seafood restaurants were.
We were directed down a road to what could loosely be called a main thoroughfare to a row of old houses that looked once upon a time to be Victorian in style but architecturally obscured by the various “slap on” additions that had been made to them over the years. We arrived at the island’s “crown jewel”, an acclaimed B&B which was supposed to offer quaint comfort and seafood feasts.
In a language that was far from “Elizabethan” English, we were told that, no, OUR accommodations would be across the street. So across the street we went and up on to the only part of the structure that was air-conditioned, the pseudo-florida room front porch. There we found a group of weary guests that had been marooned on the island since the previous day.
At this point, I’m checking the ferry schedule to determine what time I need to be at the dock to leave that evening. These folks have been waiting for our ferry to arrive so that they can escape. One of these guests was a reporter from Baltimore, sent by her manager, to do a story on this “quaint hamlet” in the middle of the Chesapeake. She is quite verbal about the fact that this place is hot, humid, and infested with the most voracious mosquitoes found on the east coast. Miserable and itchy, she has no intention of writing a “glowing” recommendation of this place as great weekend retreat for Baltimore’s urban dwellers. The other couple, older and married, kindly asked us if we’d been married long. We said only a year or two and they promptly recommended if didn’t want to be filing for divorce in the morning that we should be on the ferry going home that evening.
If only I’d followed the advice, left on the ferry and gone ahead and filed for divorce the next day, I could have saved myself so much aggravation and misery, but, I didn’t. Looking back, “the handwriting was on the wall” by then but, alas, I failed to read it for several years thereafter.
Oh, well, such is life. Eventually, we learn our lessons.
Back to the trip from hell, we found our room which did sport a ceiling fan and two double beds. We came back downstairs only to be encouraged again by the old couple to leave while we had the chance as they headed toward the dock. The ex, however, was bouncing around like a new puppy, anxious to “explore” the island. Me, I’m still looking for some food and, by then, I wanted about a six-pack of cold beer to go with it.
That’s when I got the next bit of good news—it’s a DRY island. Meaning, they don’t sell or serve alcohol ANYWHERE on the island. If you don’t bring it with you, you suffer through your visit sober.
Going back to the main establishment across the street, the ex inquires where we might find something “light” to eat and drink to hold us until time for our fabulous “all you can eat” seafood dinner there at the B&B. We were directed to the crab shack back down at the dock. The term “shack” was generous. The menu consisted of a soft shell crab sandwich, a crab cake sandwich, and a fish sandwich. All served on white bread, not buns, sans condiments, with chips and on paper plates.
From here, the ex determines that we will rent bicycles and explore the island until dinner. Dinner is still a few hours away. The island is 6.5 miles long and about 1.5 miles at its widest point. Even by bike, it doesn’t take long to “see all there is to see.”
As I mentioned, it was hot, muggy and every inlet and tributary we pasted over was filled with the locals’ castoffs. I saw more bicycles in the “dumping” ground than I saw at the rental shop. We eventually wandered back to our accommodations to prepare for the dinner that the ex was anticipating with such glee.
At the exact time the meal was scheduled to begin, we were present at a table with 3 or 4 other tourists, who were likewise trapped, as dinner was served “family style”. The table was covered with an array of dishes, ranging from green beans to corn. There was a huge platter of ham slices and fried chicken. No seafood was to be seen.
About ten minutes after we sat down, a family of four arrived from Baltimore. Since the ferry had left and would not return until morning, it was presumed they arrived by private boat. They had actually flown in a small plane from DC area, expecting to make a quick stopover for a seafood dinner before making their way further south to their destination. Their young children, obviously hungry too, had begun to reach for a basket of rolls when one of the staff came out of the kitchen and discovered the newcomers. She brusquely announced the cost of the meal and the mother instantly reached out grabbing the hands of the children on either side of her.
I’ve eaten in 5 star restaurants serving the finest haute cuisine and it not cost as much as the price quoted to this couple. Apparently, this divine meal we were about to receive was included in the price of our overnight accommodations (over-priced too, considering) but, the meal alone sans a bed for the night was exorbitant. The newcomers mumbled something about a pressing engagement elsewhere, offered a swift apology for the inconvenience, raced back to their plane and took flight.
By this time, another staff member had appeared from the back of the house with a tray of dark brown golf balls. She carefully went around the table depositing exactly two of these “delicacies” on each plate and then retreated. The other server explained that this was the seafood portion of the feast. Two golf ball size crab cakes. That was limit of the seafood and no additional crab cakes would be offered but we were free to eat as much as we wanted of the other dishes on the table.
While edible, the meal was hardly worth a ferry ride and an overnight stay in this hovel. It was certainly no feast and didn’t include seafood, save the golf ball crab cakes which were heavy on the cake as it turns out. Undaunted by this, the ex inquires what fun activities we might enjoy after the meal. The server’s reply, “you can go down and watch the crabs molt.”
Thinking it was an attempt at humor, the erstwhile hubby says, “No really, what is there to do on the island.” She says in the same bland fashion, “You can go down and watch the crabs molt.” For the uninitiated, molting is the process whereby the crab sheds its shell, and has a soft membrane covering, hence the term soft-shell crab, until the covering hardens once again.
After leaving the dinner table, the ex pleaded with me to ride around the island on the bikes again. I preferred to go look for a boat captain as desperate for money as I was to leave and hire him to take me back to the shore and my car. The ex then proclaims that the “charming” place we’re staying will provide for such a romantic evening and the breakfast the next morning was bound to be better, since it was after all a Bed and Breakfast!
He apparently failed to realize the extent of my displeasure and discomfort but the possibilities of his experiencing any “romance” with me that night were about as good as finding an ocean in the middle of the Sahara. We made our way back to the limited coolness of the florida room/porch at our temporary digs to discover two of the other intrepid travelers had had the forethought to pack a bottle of booze.
To this day I don’t remember what it was—bourbon, scotch, corn liquor or white lightening and I really didn’t care. They were gracious enough to share, bless their hearts, and considering the limited amount of food I’d consumed that day, it didn’t take much to put me into a blissful state of numbness. Once there, I determinedly walked up the stairs, readied myself for bed and dug out my book. The ex appeared and was unbelievably surprised to discover he was sleeping in the other bed.
I finally drifted off, sustained by the thoughts of my departure in the early morn on the ferry. The night passed fitfully but finally it was light and I quickly prepared for my departure. As I was dressing, I observed the source of my discomfort the night before. I looked like I had the measles. I was covered in bites. Thinking initially it was mosquitoes, I took a close look at the room and the window but they were firmly covered by appropriate screens. Then I looked at the bed. There I discovered the problem—fleas, hundreds of them! That was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I wanted off that island and preferably sans hubby. I marched downstairs to confirm the arrival of the first ferry and the time of its departure and finalized my plans to be on it. My plans were quickly dashed, however, when I found out on this day the schedule was exactly opposite of the day before and I would have to wait for the afternoon ferry to get back to the dock where my car was located. Another eight hours in this nightmare—-would I ever wake up???
Feeling homicidal, but still having a tiny bit of control, I settled myself in the chair closest to the AC on the porch and proceeded to loose myself in my book. The appointed hour was announced by the sound of the fog horn on the ferry from the dock. I raced to the boat, almost ready to swear I would never set foot off terra firma again if I could ever get back to shore.
The conclusion to this mis-adventure is totally in keeping with the rest of the story. We arrived back at the marina only to discover that the previous night while I was being eaten alive, it caught fire and burned almost completely to the ground. The gods smiled on me, thankfully, and spared my little compact car. But as I climbed in, started the engine and began to maneuver through the burned wreckage to go home, I almost drove right off the pier into the water when the ex suggested a short side-trip to a little place he had read was “just off the beaten path, but picturesque…..”
