Dispatches

We leaned our backs against the ship's stern railing, looking over the top deck at the skyline as it peeked over at us. The band began to kick into "The Boat Song" just as we felt the gentle thrust of the engines kick in.

I had to chuckle along with the rest. Odds were good that at least three-quarters of those both onboard and on myspace had set that song as their default for the day. Hell, I'd done it, too. How could you not?

What if we were in the same boat
Rolling on a green sea
Listening to the water
No ordered future, no sorted old, wet memories?

The setup wasn't what I'd expected. I'd envisioned the band on the top deck, playing for the crowds assembled on three levels. But placing the band inside the main room made sense upon factoring in that not every boat cruise benefited from the gorgeous sunset beginning to glow in the distance. After a 45-second foray into the sauna-like crush inside, I settled into our friendly cluster of birthday revelers at the back, where we could lean, dance, sing or converse as we deemed fit.

We snapped photos, laughed and swooned over the skyline as the ship cut through the water - I realized that it finally felt like summer as I sipped a pineapple martini and pushed the hair back from my face. I don't find myself on the water often, but I love it each time I do. It was my first harbor cruise, and I was often found staring at the skyline, seeing it for the first time from a two-lantern point of view.

The band was on, as is seemingly always the case, with a vibe that seemed to compliment the crowd. Ready for a good time, but a little more laid-back than normal, just letting the music go where it wanted and smiling along the way. Or, at least, I have to imagine the guys were smiling. I felt as if I could hear Ryan's smile through the speakers.

It was odd, though, chatting my way through a Montbleau show. The music was what had brought everyone together, but it was background music, something I'd never found the music to be before. I guess it's because I'd never listened to it on a boat before. We sang along with some of the music, of course, and there was a crazy corner dance elicited by "You Crazy You," but there was a definite disconnect. Not in a bad way, either, although I'd always prefer to see them in a traditional club setting.

This was just different. And nice. More than a little surreal, particularly as the ship pulled back into the docks after our three-hour tour and several hundred voices could be heard singing along with "Stretch"'s chorus.

You just don't come across that too often, and I was glad to be there.

***
Yeah, I'm pretty much burning in hell.

This is nothing new, of course. My highway to hell was paved a long time ago, and the proper signage was put in place the moment I accidentally took my First Communion during a Sunday evening service early into my college career.

(True story, swear to God. Wait. I shouldn't be swearing to God - see? I'm doing it again!)

But I couldn't help it. I really and truly couldn't resist the opportunity that presented itself to B and I.

See, a morning in Beverly had turned into a meandering walking tour of Salem. There were five of us, and L served as our designated North Shore tourgide, pointing out spots and sights and whatnot.

It was rather odd for me. Having spent so much of my time only a town or two away, there were spots that jumped out at me, and I could explain how they'd popped into my life at various points.

("Ah, the Hawthorne Hotel was fun" sounds particularly eyebrow-raising until I add that "I was 9," "it was a wedding reception" and "get your head out of the gutter.")

But I'd never actually explored Salem. I'd enjoyed Salem Willows flavored popcorn, but I'd never been there myself. I knew of specific witch-related points, but I didn't know where they were. The House of Seven Gables could be on Plymouth Rock, for all I knew of how to find it.

After walking about, our group briefly broke up. Three went off to have their cards read (fitting, no?), and B and I decided to keep on exploring. As we sat in a juice bar, rehydrating, the idea struck.

We headed to the car, grabbed my iPod and headed back to the Old Burying Point.

Now, keep in mind that I do not disrespect the dead. At all. But I'm wandering around Witch Town, USA, in the baking sunshine, at a cemetery that has become a tourist attraction, right down the street from a wax museum and signs offering vampire tours.

This isn't exactly the most somber place.

And we followed every rule. Stay on the trails. Keep quiet.

I saw absolutely nothing that forbid cuing up "Thriller" on the iPod and sharing the earbuds. And there was no signage that prohibited a quick bustout of a music video dance move or two - out of view of everyone else.

C'mon, I think the ye olde folke of Salem would have totally dug it. I mean, Witchstock was supposedly going on right down the street.

But, that said, I suppose the whole thing came up because witches were supposedly going to go to hell anyway.

Hmm.

Oh well. Hell it is.

(more photos on flickr)