The Sweetest Summer(2)

            “Unknown. Lena called it in as a trespassing.”

            “10-4. Keep me posted. Flynn Out.”

            Underage drinking was always a problem throughout the tourist season, but during festival week it became a crisis. As police chief, Clancy felt personally responsible for the safety of every visitor to his island, especially kids. But sometimes it felt like festival-week tourists were trying awfully hard to get themselves killed. Not only were those kids probably drinking, they’d picked an area designated a no-swim zone because of its wicked riptide. To make matters worse, they were on Adelena Silva’s private property, and nobody had to remind Clancy how much Bayberry’s only celebrity despised trespassers.

            Right on schedule, the long, monotone horn of the Nantucket passenger ferry announced its approach. For Clancy, the sound of the arriving boat was just background noise, part of life on Bayberry Island, like the roar of the sea, the rush of wind, and the cry of seabirds. But the rumble of the engine and bellow of the horn were enough to scare some of the tourists, who clasped hands over their ears as the boardwalk began to vibrate. Clancy made his way through the crowds toward the public dock, where he would perform a duty he’d done three times already that day and would do twice more before nightfall. Clancy made a point of greeting every passenger ferry that arrived during festival week, unless a dire emergency kept him away and his father, Mayor Frasier Flynn, stood in for him. Clancy wanted visitors to know they were welcome, but also that the Bayberry Island Police Department took its duty seriously. As he’d learned walking the beat in Boston, a little eye contact and a firm handshake were the most effective tools in crime prevention.

            Clancy leaned his back against the public dock railing, hooking the heel of his shoe on the bottom metal rung. As always, he returned the friendly salute from Old John, the Nantucket Ferry conductor, who stood his post at the aluminum gangway. It took a good five minutes for the captain to complete his docking procedure and for Old John to open the gate for passengers.

            Clancy couldn’t help but smile as the latest batch of tourists descended. Barbie, his ex-wife, once asked him why he seemed to be in a bad mood during festival week. “Everyone seems so happy just to be here,” she’d pointed out. “Can’t you be happy for them?”

            He was happy for them. He understood that everyone deserved a little time to cut loose and have fun, but it was his job to keep them safe while they were doing it. As it turned out, the foul mood Barbie noted wasn’t due to the demands of his job at all—it was from living with her.

            Clancy watched the tourists flow single file down the gangway and onto the dock. This was his favorite part of festival week, truth be told. He got a kick out of the kids, how their eyes grew huge at the sight of the colorful banners, balloons, street vendors, and costumes. It never took long before they began to squirm and jump up and down and the boldest ones tried to make a solo run for Main Street.

            Though Clancy had been through this cycle every year of his life, it was impossible not to share in the delight he saw in most every visitor’s face. For many of them, this was their annual getaway, the event they’d planned and saved for during the other fifty-one weeks of the year. And though there were no prizes awarded for costumes worn by ferry passengers, about half of the new arrivals made their grand entrance already dressed to impress.

            Clancy blinked in surprise at a man who wore the purest display of gender confusion he’d ever seen. The dude’s left side was all mermaid, with a shell bikini top, smooth skin, fake eyelashes and flowing hair, while his right side was all merman, complete with a hairy chest, tattoos, and one hell of a five-o’clock shadow. Clancy had to give him extra points for self-expression.

            “Hello. Welcome to Bayberry Island.” Clancy tipped his chin, smiled, and shook hands with the merperson and a string of tourists who followed behind. “Hello. Have fun. Welcome.”

            He chatted with a few people, took pictures with a few more, and recognized many that had been coming to the festival for decades. Among them were Willa and Chet Chester, an older couple who had been regular guests at his family’s bed-and-breakfast for decades. They happened to be lifelong nudists as well, founders of a parallel version of festival week for those who preferred to party in the buff. The nudist colony on the far side of the island did it up right. They had an opening ceremony, a parade, reenactments of the mermaid legend, plays, food, music, a craft fair, and a clambake—all of it done sans clothing.