Ayuh, would ya look at the calendar? It’s freakin’ August already! And would ya believe it—we still haven’t made our pilgrimage to Block Island this summer! It’s practically a sin in this household. I mean, we LOVE that place. Love with a capital-L. Like clamming-in-the-Great-Salt-Pond love. Like biking-’til-yer-butt’s-sore love. Like sipping a Dark ’n Stormy on the Patricia Ann while hollerin’ “He’s got a shark on!” kinda love.
We’ve spent more summers docked at the Block Island Boat Basin than I can count without takin’ off my shoes. I still remember the shark tournaments like it was yesterday—me starin’ off the bow with a cold drink, and the boats rollin’ in like it was the freakin’ Discovery Channel live in New England. And the food? Don’t get me stahted. The best fried chicken this side of the Mason-Dixon was from The Oar. And don’t tell Nana I said that.
So don’t get me wrong—what I’m about to say comes from a place of deep affection. Like, “I’d bail water outta your dinghy in a nor’eastah” kinda affection.
But what in the name of Del’s Lemonade is up with the steel drums?
Look—I got no beef with Calypso. Harry Belafonte’s a legend. If I’m down in the Virgin Islands, I expect to hear steel pans while I’m drinkin’ somethin’ with an umbrella in it and tryin’ not to get a sunburn shaped like my flip-flops. But this is BLOCK ISLAND. We’re talkin’ stone walls, saltbox cottages, and gulls that’ll mug you for a clamcake. Not piña coladas and palm trees.
Yet somehow, some marketing fella—probably wearin’ Sperrys without socks—decided that the best way to sell a trip to Block was with a soundtrack straight outta Montego Bay. That “Sail away on the Block Island Ferry” jingle? Sure, the lyrics are fine. Catchy even. But play just the tune for someone in Italy at an espresso bar and ask ’em what island they picture. I guarantee ya, they’re not thinkin’ New Shoreham. They’re thinkin’ Barbados or somethin’ where iguanas cross the road like pigeons.
Honestly, it’s like puttin’ jazz music in a funeral home. Wait—no, scratch that—jazz might actually work in a funeral home. This is worse. This is like playin’ reggae in a snowplow.
Still, I gotta laugh. We all do. My neighbors shake their heads, roll their eyes, and just chuckle. It’s become part of the summer charm, like tourists tryin’ to ride bikes up Payne’s Dock hill in flip-flops. The steel drums blare, the ferry keeps runnin’, and the crowds keep comin’.
And ya know what? Who can blame ’em. Block Island’s still a slice of heaven. The kind where time slows down, your cell service gets spotty (bless it), and you remember how to breathe again.
It was Rhode Island’s best-kept secret… until Calypso came clanging in like a drunk uncle at a wedding reception.
But I guess that’s the irony, ain’t it? We go to Block to escape. And now she’s got a soundtrack that makes you think you overshot Point Judith and washed up in Grenada.
Still—we love her. Steel drums and all.
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