Selective memories of an island excursion
By Sean Wilkinson, with photography and accompaniment by The Fuge
Last month I took part in an exploratory expedition to a small island off the coast of Portinsula. The mission: to investigate the phenomenon known as “Reggae Sunday.”
My mind has needed time to reflect on (remember) this singular experience. To aid the process, I’ve moved my writing desk nearer the window in the study, so as to bake a bit in the sun. I’ve procured a cold Corona from the pantry and put The Harder They Come on the turntable.
Ah, yes, it’s working! The alcohol and ambiance are rousing groggy memories at last…
We arrive at Casco Bay Lines around noon, following sustenance at Artemisia Café and a brisk constitutional. I’m accompanied by my good man Ouellette, who carries the sound-recording and image-capturing equipment, and by our benefactor on this journey, the publisher Busby, whom we hope is carrying sufficient credit for the large tab ahead.
All around us, anxious passengers crowd the loading pen like livestock. Nearby, a father and son with a tandem bicycle, elders holding canvas bags full of provisions, a pack of thick-necked boy-men in shirts rendered sleeveless by moms… An odd collection of travelers, indeed!
•••
The ferry sets out for Peaks Island; the rumble of its engines as they push us from the dock is momentarily drowned out by the collective hiss of a hundred beer cans opened in unison.
•••
Upon arrival about 20 minutes later, we join the long and partially shirtless line inching its way up the landing plank. A dinghy christened Jones Landingprotrudes above the entrance to the establishment ahead – the nautical equivalent of the plane tail that long stuck from the roof of Popeye’s Icehouse.
A police officer stands guard, arms crossed, mirrored sunglasses gleaming. His presence reminds me of the stories I’ve heard about Reggae Sunday, tales of drunken fistfights, louts and harlots peeing and puking and leaping from the ferry. It’s as if the crowd in the Old Port on Saturday nights awakes en masse every Sunday and, discovering they’re still on the waterfront, decides to hit one more club.
The revelers this day – complete with white baseball caps, clear high heels, peeling shoulders and saggy, fake-leather purses – seem subdued so far, though there’s a palpable current of soon-to-be-drunken energy charging the air. There’s also a modest cover charge.
•••
On our first trip to the bar we become acquainted with what’s to become our constant companion this afternoon: a metal bucket full of ice and cold Budweiser. The beer comes in curious containers, thin cans shaped like bottles with extra-wide mouths that send the contents whooshing down our throats at the slightest tip. The cans’ remarkably light weight and unconventional shape mask the fact they hold 16 ounces, rather than 12. We realize this well after the first bucket has been retired.
A band called Stream is making reggae-like sounds – executing syncopated staccato hits on the 2’s and 4’s – but it’s background noise on the crowded deck, where every seat and leaning space is occupied by people shouting and laughing over the music.
•••
Christ, did the woman at that table just do a shot while holding her kid with the other arm? Yes, by God, she did – she did a toddler shot! Where’s the camera?
•••
Time, and two more buckets, have passed. A few people have begun to undulate in front of the stage. Ouellette and I crane our necks to catch the band as they suddenly launch into a rousing number, only to realize it’s the overly enthusiastic DJ playing Buju Banton’s first album in what turns out to be its entirety. Apparently, it’s break time already. We’re fairly intoxicated for 2 p.m.
•••
The friendly “shot girl” arrives again to peddle her test tubes. We attempt to ply her for inside information about this place, but must, of course, purchase and consume rounds of her sugary/watery tropical drinks for cover.
Whatever information she relays is promptly forgotten.
•••
Fresh boatloads of drinkers continue to arrive, like British convicts shipped off to Rastaustralia. Still, all is under control. There’s been no bottle-smashing, no mumblety-peg played. We’re genuinely enjoying ourselves.
•••
Who was this guy, again?
•••
People in the piss lines love the big, inflated beer bottle by the bar, love lifting and tipping it as though they’re chugging a giant Corona. Generations will come and go like leaves, but this will never get old.
•••
Busby is excited. He’s spotted Fred Forsley, of Shipyard beer fame, doing the Falmouth shuffle by the side of the stage. Could be a story here, he says. Where’s that damn camera? Actually, where’s Ouellette? Oh, here comes the shot girl again. Maybe she knows.
•••
From here the memories get even more sporadic. For example, why am I at Amigo’s? There’s beer spilled on my shoes, but I’m the only one here.
•••
Granny’s makes an incredible burrito.
•••
Upon reflection, Reggae Sunday isn’t so bad. Granted, it helps to bring a benefactor. And don’t forget to pack six for the trip over. Nevermind the journey back.
Reggae Sunday takes place most summer Sundays at Jones Landing, Peaks Island, beginning at 11 a.m. Cover: $5 (21+). 766-5652.
