Steve and his brothers’ childhood adventures included jumping into the Atlantic from the concrete bunker, a relic from World War II, that still stood defiantly in the surf at South Beach a generation later.
“The Bunker Is Leaving”
When I was a boy
I swam at South Beach
We played in the waves
My brothers and me
We laid on our stomachs
All wet from the surf
The sand kept us warm
It pulled us to earth
As we grew older we swam further out
We’d surf into the hard cobbled shore
The waves would twist you and toss you about
But it was exciting
We’d swim out for more
When we were younger the bunker was bigger
A big empty box way back in the dunes
The Navy had used it back in the ’40s
For target practice for World War Two
When we grew older we would dive off it
We’d wait for the wave
We’d dive off the edge
Don’t hang around
Or the next one would toss you
Right back upon the hard cement edge
There are lots of challenges for Island children
Like swimming at South Beach
The rail at Big Bridge
The Bunker was one of those down-Island hurdles
You’d wanted to try it to see if you’d live
But as time went on the Bunker receded
The ocean, you see,
Was having its way
It’s chewing away the length of the Island
It’s inching its way
Into the Bay
The Navy came back
And blew it to pieces
Made a big mess
Then went away
Now all that’s left is out in the ocean
Way out to sea, it’s slipping away
There will be other ways Island children
Spend summer days
And shape Island lives
Nothing will ever stay here forever
We live on a sandbar
Of swift moving tides
But I hope my kids
Catch other bunkers
Dig their feet deep
Into hot Island sand
Run with the wind
And jump off the railings
Smell the salt breeze
Hold time in their hands
That’s what is so special
About Martha’s Vineyard
Why we live here
Or why we come back
Our lives are reflected
As we tap into nature
On this edge of the world
Where the sea meets the sand.
Steve wrote “Skirts” for his youngest brother, Scotty, who was killed in a car accident near the West Chop Light after leaving a party one night in 1985.
“Skirts”
He said stay young
and kept us all a little younger.
He was youth personified
at twenty-five years old.
Always running
youngest brother
pushing harder
loved to wander.
Knowing where Scott went
week to weekend
in between his work with Jimmy
was a full time job.
Some ski resort
a party in New York
taking life to heart
and spreading out his gift
to all of us.
Quick wit
a steady jive
while flashes of a deeper insight
surfaced on the beat
he loved to dance to.
And while Scott packed it in
he really had to win
at sports in school, or pinochle,
fat, from some family dinner.
I’ve heard it was his grin
the way he looked at women
the way he loved to swim and dive
to beat the waves at South Beach
since he was a little kid.
And skip the disc
softball in O.B.
Winters under summer suns.
He loved his life, and gave his friends the best of it,
like driving poor old Magda from New York.
She passed on too,
so did Abbie Mae,
our grandma, bless her soul.
She passed away the day
A year ago.
One of Scott’s last Valentines
was to this woman who he joins in peace
and giving all he had to give on earth
he leaves us in the brightness of his love.
Let us pray:
Scott, your vehicle abandoned in the night
we pray God speed your spirit
searching for the light
into the realm of grace
and pure design.
Sent home sublime.
Your growth on earth
ended for a time.
We miss the love your body brought
warm kisses
soft embrace
your fluid run
your arms and legs
your tender laughing face.
In sweet swift years
you stamped your soul’s embrace
forever in our hearts.
We love you Scott.
Amen.
Steve’s first job as a pier builder was with Grant and Carbon Marine, a new operation in Edgartown in 1970. Steve wrote this poem for Jeremias “Jerry” M. Vieira, his longtime friend and co-wharfbuilder from those days, who died June 19, 2008, at the age of seventy.
“Jeremias”
I remember Jerry best at work
Two drawknives
A peavey
And an ax
A tractor load
Of spiles
Oak Trees
From up north
We’d bark
Me a teenage
Local kid
Him a father
Fresh from San Miguel
He came with Bernadette
And the girls
Work for Manuel Santos
In the cemetery
Yard work
For rent
Bob snatched him up
For Morgan Marine
I signed on
Fresh from high school
As Grant and Carbon
Took the reins
Building docks
Setting blocks
Bulkheads
All that stuff
Jerry didn’t drive
Didn’t drill
Didn’t use power tools
They scared him
Old world Azore man
Rather work by hand
He learned to drive
At Grant’s pit
Barking spiles
He’d drive my car
Clarence Barry’s
’54 Caddy
He was short
Behind the wheel
Floating over
Big Katama
Thank you mam’s
When he died last week
I did the math
Jerry was just thirty-two or so
Back in 1970
When we raced
To bark the most
Both of us
To prove
Who we were
So many tows
And piers
And jobs
Between us now
I’d see him as the years
Slipped by
And always
Deep within those eyes
So dark
And strong
And full
Of what it takes
To make it work
Before he died
I ran into my friend again
Bob Morgan’s funeral
Was the time
We shook
And sighed
And laughed
And said
Those wordless things
We shared
I did get to say
I had his drawknife
In the shop
Always sharp
It stays
Ready for an oak
To peel
Just like in the day.
(An online extra following a story originally published in the September-October 2008 edition of Martha's Vineyard Magazine)
