Confessions of a Year-Rounder: What We Do in Winter

People ask me all the time: "Dotty, what do you DO in winter?" As if the island sinks into the sea on Labor Day and rises again on Memorial Day. As if 11,000 of us just hibernate until the ferry returns to its summer schedule.

Let me tell you what we do in winter.

We Have The Beach To Ourselves

Do you know what it's like to walk the length of Surfside Beach in February and not see another soul? To watch the seals without fighting for a parking spot? To sit on the sand without worrying about someone else's umbrella territory?

It's glorious. It's cold. It's ours.

I walk that beach every morning in winter, bundled up like a sailor's wife from 1840, and I watch the waves like my grandmother watched them, and her mother before her. No phones. No photos. Just ocean.

The Restaurants Get Better

Here's a secret the summer people don't know: the restaurants that stay open in winter? They're cooking for us now. For the people who will see them again in February, and March, and April.

The service is slower in the best way—they actually stop to talk. The specials are real specials, not tourist bait. You can get a table at 7pm on a Friday without planning two months in advance. It's civilized.

I won't name names, but there are two restaurants downtown that I won't go to in summer because I can't get a table, and I won't go to in summer because the kitchen is stretched too thin. But in February? They remember my name. They remember my order. They ask about my niece.

We Actually See Each Other

In summer, even the year-rounders get lost in the crowd. We're working. We're avoiding Main Street. We're hiding.

In winter, we reconvene. The same faces at the coffee shop every morning. The same neighbors at the town meeting. The community groups that actually get things done because we're not too exhausted from the season.

I've had the same book club for thirty years. We only meet September through May. Nobody has the time in summer.

The Island Remembers Itself

This is the part that's hard to explain. In summer, Nantucket is a destination. A brand. A place people come to see.

In winter, it's a home. The fog rolls in and the island feels smaller, closer, more itself. The houses that were summer rentals go dark, and the lights that stay on are the lights of people who chose to be here. Not for a week. For a life.

Yes, It's Quiet. That's The Point.

Some people come in October and complain that "everything's closed." Honey, that's why we like October. The "everything" that's closed is the thing that was making us crazy in August.

We have everything we need. Grocery stores. Hardware store. Friends. The ocean. What else does a person require?

A Confession

I'm going to say something that might surprise you: I don't actually hate tourists. I don't. I grumble about them, sure. But I understand why they come. This island is worth the ferry ride. It's worth the crowded rotaries and the restaurant waits and the $25 parking tickets.

I just wish they could see what I see in February. The quiet mornings. The empty beaches. The island at rest.

But then again, maybe it's okay that they don't. Some things are better kept secret.

See you in summer. I'll be the one sighing at the rotary.