and they're off ...

I could go on for a week about the start of the Bermuda Race — and maybe I will. Honestly, it was a scene, and not an altogether serene scene, despite any/all images of sailing to the contrary.

The spectator fleet was significant. Not to mention diverse. It felt like the whole world was out there: boats from all over (including one that might have had a larger following if the Celtics had fared better last week) and others you might see every day.

A few (just a few) folks opted to watch from Castle Hill, where according to my neighbor you'll find "the preppiest dog scene in the world." I wasn't sure what he was implying at first — turns out he was being literal, as he went on to describe all manner of designer collars and leashes and bulldogs from England with names such as Winston.

But back to the water: it was unruly — like a highway going in every direction simultaneously without the relative order granted by lines. It was also LOUD, given the assortment of vessels under power (on water and in air) and cannons going off at regular intervals to announce the starting sequences. Every so often the Race Committee would come by to push everyone back from entrants heading our way. Other than that, there was nothing keeping anyone from the front of the line ...

That's the thing about Newport — and maybe the sea?? It's essentially an open forum. Not everyone gets to Bermuda, but there's always (or almost always) a way to get out there. To see stuff. Do things. Be part of the mix.

FYI: That (above) is "Speedboat," with the beakish bow ...

bermuda?

I never seem to get to The Point — the neighborhood, that is. It's not far, but it's apart, even though it's right there. And when I do get there, like the other day when I walked downhill to the Shipyard just to see what I might see, I always think, "Why don't I get here more often??"

The Point is another world. That's what I was thinking as I looked up at assorted vessels from near and far having work done ... or maybe getting ready for the Newport Bermuda Race, which starts today, meaning I have no time to spare as I'm supposed to meet Mr. Betty and Darling Daughter at the dock so we can go out to see (sea??) the scene.

What I really love about The Point is its age, this being the oldest residential section of town, with the Colonial riches to show for it. Just walking here (and I happened to be walking behind a couple who seemed to be enjoying the whole scene as much as I was) is revelationary. Not revolutionary — although I suppose it's that, too — but revelationary. I always think new thoughts in this old place. Nothing big, just new. Or not new, but I get reminded. About age, for the most part, and how at some level it's all so very cool.

I know, I know: I'm making little sense. Age is cool?? I'm in a rush — that being part of the problem (and the point). And it'd be so great to know where I'm rushing other than out to see the start of the Bermuda Race. To set a course or direction and follow it ... that being the rhumb line more or less ... where they make a mean Dark 'n Stormy ... which makes even less sense ... but bear with me (if you can stand it for one more second) ...

As, on this particular walk, I found myself looking at signs. Not so unusual. Not even revelationary. All just part of The Point.

privacy

As I zipped down & around the last corner on my way home from a bike ride out & around Ocean Drive on Sunday, I was thinking about privacy. (Or exclusivity, maybe??) How the Swiss Village is open to the public only once per year. How they must be having quite an event behind the terracotta-topped fence at Harbour Court this weekend. How much I love that long dock at Ida Lewis where people load and lug their baggage — sails, more likely — down to the rocky island at the end where the view is unquestionably among the best in town. Not that I get there too often (we aren't members), but I get there occasionally with friends. And I'm not knocking privacy (or exclusivity). Really, I'm not.

I was also thinking about moorings ... just as I passed a guy who looked to be setting up the music for some impending nuptials at the gazebo in King Park. What a nice spot for a wedding!! How well I remember walking down the aisle ... although Mr. Betty's and my wedding was inside (at a church just a few blocks from here come to think of it), so we didn't have to hold down that unruly white runner with rocks.

Then I remembered some other rocks at the other end of King Park; I'd seen them on a day just a few months ago when the harbor was seriously gray and very nearly empty of boats. I'd never noticed these particular rocks — they're just rocks — but the tide was low, and the absence of boats made the presence of rocks more apparent. And just when I started feeling a little bit teary about that (time gone by, etc.), I started to laugh ... at the sight of a woman zipping by on a scooter while her dog ran alongside, for obvious reasons. It may have been dangerous (isn't everything??), but it was creative.

And that's precisely what she said as she passed by and I said to her, "I'm sorry, but that's funny."

She laughed back (despite cast), saying, "Sometimes you have to get creative."

p.s. Just a reminder, to the extent it matters (and it's quite a statement if you think about it): all snapshots get bigger if you click on them ...

moorings

I was all set to think about moorings this morning — they're important! But first I walked down the hill to see my hair guy, as it's also important to combat the gray. And while I was sitting there (with goo in my hair) flipping through today's Times, I was heartened ... not by the prospect of diminished grayness so much as the news that voters in San Francisco have decided that cell phone retailers should print the amount of radiation emitted from wireless devices in no smaller than 11-point type on nearby signage. That's important and logical ... and scary, like so many things, especially given the invisible nature of the risk. Or so it struck me.

Then my eyes (still getting by without reading glasses) traveled down a few inches to a photo of a pale-green fence by the rocky shore, and I thought, "Hey, that looks like the Cliff Walk."

It was the Cliff Walk. Click here to see the article. But it was far from heartening to read that a lawsuit has been brought back-to-life whereby the plaintiff faults the City of Newport (and State of RI) for an accident in which he fell onto the rocks from a dirt path off the paved walkway a decade ago and was paralyzed. On his honeymoon, no less. That's awful, dreadful, tragic; I feel nothing but the sincerest sympathy and vicarious sadness (to the point of horror) for that plaintiff and his family.

But can such an accident possibly be deemed anyone's fault other than the person who chose to stray from the paved, prescribed, public pathway?? Is it really Newport's fault that he fell because that particular visibly-eroded slope with rocks looming beneath didn't have a sign saying "danger" or some such thing?? Doesn't it go without saying that venturing off-piste on overgrown goat paths (or drainage ditches) that tumble down steep hillsides is dangerous??

Seriously — and I in no way intend to make light — I followed just such a path the other day. It may have been the very same path. And I knew it wasn't smart. Worse, I was wearing flip-flops as I ventured down for a better view of some quasi-inspirational graffiti on a concrete wall beneath the Cliff Walk. I'd actually seen the kids painting the graffiti a few days earlier, as they stood there on that ledge and I peered over the side however dizzily. But I was hard-pressed to see precisely what they were writing, so I returned and went (slid) down for a closer look. And since it was low tide, I hung out with the precariously-perched denizens of that generally mucky habitat for a little while before climbing back up and continuing on my way to First Beach, where I could look back to where I'd been.

But that's not the point. Not today. Not in light of what I read. It's just all (all) so upsetting. And much is at risk ...

sheep

As I said yesterday, not that it's a particularly telling statement, I can't possibly fit it all in. I barely touched upon the sheep — at SVF, that is — though it was certainly tempting to reach out and touch the pile of shorn fleece lying on the ground. There was also a sheep dog lying on the ground. He was no doubt a highly-valued and skilled professional simply taking a rest between stages, as more sheep waited patiently in pens for their turns. I saw his smiling face (dogs do smile) on the employee bulletin board ...

While wandering around this/that perfectly pastoral scene, I was thinking wistful thoughts. How could I not?? But then those would be interrupted by cold hard scientific facts, especially at the cryogenic "demostration" where straws of frozen sperm (80 or 90 million to a straw, and I'm not sure if they were from rare cows, rare sheep or what) were being brought back to life and squirming around under a microscope before our very eyes. The survival rate, if I recall correctly, was somewhere around 80%. Not bad!!

And there was a staggering statement on the wall that I kept pondering and pondering for its full significance: 'The SVF library is capable of recreating a breed — with its full genetic diversity — within one generation."

Wow. Just think about it ... can that really be??

But back to the sheep, by way of the winding path through that quintessential Swiss village (in Newport) where lies or flies one of the nicest weathered weathervanes I've seen ...

surprise valley

We took a ride — "we" being Mr. Betty, Darling Daughter and I — out to Surprise Valley Farm on Saturday. It was the one day each year that SVF a.k.a. the Swiss Village Farm Foundation opens its grounds to the public.

There were a few steps involved: go out to Fort Adams, board the trolley (something I/we rarely do but should do more often, as the Newport Trolleys are so efficient and adorable and important), disembark, wash your feet.

Yes, wash your feet. SVF is a "biosecure area" involved in the cryogenic preservation of rare animal breeds, so it's important not to drag in ... well, whatever you might drag in on the bottom of your feet.

Once inside, it's another world, not just biologically but geographically. SVF looks and feels like the rolling, stone-walled English countryside. To me, anyway; that's what I always think when I ride my bike out in that direction. In fact, it's a replica of a Swiss village built in the early 20th century by a doting husband for his wife who pined for the Alps. Or something like that; click here for the full story. It involves much history and all manner of lore — architectural, familial, nautical, all that good Newporty stuff — but, in the interest of time, I'll stay focused on the present.

Yeah, right. Fat chance. I could have stopped right there, where we were washing our feet, and focused on nothing more than the assorted footwear so reminiscent of my own familial history being dipped into antiseptic solution.

But I kept moving. To the chicken house, where there were indeed some rare-looking breeds. And cute chicks. Interesting shingles. Disquieting signage. The most appealing stone cottage imaginable turned out to be the slaughterhouse. Honestly, it was perfect to the point of Disney-esque ... but with a morbid twist. That's farming, I guess.

Needless to say, I kept clicking away. Much to Mr. Betty's and Darling Daughter's dismay. I can't possibly cram all we saw into one day. Suffice it to say: the master and the mistress used to sit on that hill (though clearly not in those precise chairs) and watch the cattle trot home across the bridge they built, so picturesquely situated in the whole little world they built ...

Put another way: they sat watching 'til the cows came home.

Except, yesterday, there were no cows — on the bridge, anyway. Just some strangers (and a whole lot of water) under the bridge. A few fenced-in sheep. Modern vehicles in historic bays ...