love it. protect it. mv Shorelines The shoreline of Martha’s Vineyard looks very different from those of other popular destinations on the east coast. Instead of miles-long strips of houses and hotels, built upon pilings in the dunes and wetlands, our beaches remain unspoiled. The human footprint is lighter here, better able to share space with nature. For this, we have the political process – and the law – to thank. Back in 1965, when the Vineyard Conservation Society was founded, these shores had little legal protection. VCS advocated for the 1972 passage of the state Wetlands Protection Act, and then helped organize the creation of the conservation commissions that would administer it. Seven years later, the state office of Coastal Zone Management was formed to address the challenges of continued growth along the coast. The new laws empowered local communities to implement stronger protections not only for wetlands, but for any land subject to tidal action, including beaches, banks, and dunes. Of course, more work remains, particularly in tightening our zoning bylaws to better manage the growing development pressure, all the more necessary today in the face of rising seas and more frequent coastal storms. We hope you enjoy the slideshow of the artworks we've received, and the wonderful writings below. Thank you to all who have participated, and please join in with our current theme! Squibnocket Beach Hard rattle of granite shaken by waves— ball mill miles long making sand.
In the intermissions, tiny birds feed between stones that could kill if they moved an inch.
Next wave breaks and they race up the beach together. birds gain dry sand, safe.
Then new food draws them back to trace the edge of just enough again. —Warren Woessner My Island Floats
My island knows no bounds yet grows them The sea around it moves in waves of contradiction Birthing and burying while roiling and calming
Washing feet of fishermen since they started keeping time Ferrying travelers of every stripe, scale, skin Buoying fleets of exploration, exile, warfare
Witnessing baptisms and shipwrecks by fiery light Carrying life, death, the undegradable Until they stop keeping time
No one changes the water No one cleans the bowl My island floats, fixed off a callous coast —Arnie Reisman Wasque This is a place of pixel elements – grains of sand, sea spray, salt wind – the material of an impermanent beach. Today sea and sky are the color of shadows. A southwest gale rakes the sea into spume and punches it ashore. The island stretches twenty miles east before this spot, and shoreline blunts the running waves. But here the beach takes a sharp angle, and the sea rips.
Rips the sand which sloughs and sluices. Rips the water. Churns bait into broth for bluefish and bass. The flung pellets sting fishermen, level departing footprints. Leave only the swirl of elements. —Don McLagan Shores As I walk the woods a sound like moving water strides with me. Above my head waves of light cross a sea of deep space and break into energies on the breathing shore of high green trees.
As I walk the water's edge a voice like moving water speaks to me. Below my feet waves of eternity cross a sea of deep time and crash endlessly onto the shifting shore of each new moment.
As I walk among others a light like moving water glows inside me. Within its inner ocean waves of oneness cross a sea of deep harmony and merge seamlessly into the glistening shore of each living thing. —Jeff Agnoli As the sun sets, Sunbeams bisect the jetties. Jetties bisect the beach, Battling the losing war against erosion. The group of friends sits 6 feet apart, Quietly watching. —Jennifer Blum Towards the end of every winter, when we’ve had what seems to be the last big storm, I put on every bit of clothing I have and go to Moshup’s Beach, to pay my respects to the work of the Wampanoag giant who created this island for his people. The Native Americans who live here tell how he formed the island by dragging his toe across the sand to separate it from the mainland, and then colored the cliffs of Aquinnah in their distinctive russets and purples when dressing the whale meat he ate for dinner. Geologists have a different explanation: an island formed by the massive force of a glacier pushing a piece of mainland out into the ocean. Both are stories of great power and energy, and it’s possible to hold both in the imagination as you walk under the cliffs, seeing what new raiment they will wear in the coming season, what new colors of clay have been exposed by the winter’s lashing of wind and tide. It’s beautiful to see these changes, and it’s humbling. The cliffs are, of course, eroding, the ocean claiming back what giant or glacier created. As the wind sends grains of sand stinging against my cheeks, I smile with gratitude. What a thing it is, to be here now. To be alive for this moment of ephemeral beauty, this miracle of an island home. —Geraldine Brooks |
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