A Song of Salt and Sweat
On summer nights so sweet with promise, in the town of Woods Hole, the sun’s great heat abates so swiftly; a breeze of salt and fish, not unpleasant to those familiar, explores the corners of the gray-shingled buildings it knows all too well. The tide is high, or sometimes low, but either way the sands gaze upon the sky for the first time since this morning, experiencing a brief respite from the barrage of towels and footprints and piercing umbrellas to block the rays of the sun.
A tourist would look upon the empty beaches and quiet streets and the boats put to bed in their harbors and would suppose that the children have been put to bed, too, the glow of excitement fading from their cheeks as swiftly the golden glow from the sun.
The tourist would be mistaken.
Nestled in between one of the many ancient marine biological lab buildings and the small hexagonal home of the drawbridge operator lies the old firehouse, with windows on two sides overlooking the water. Its wooden floor, worn smooth by sand-roughened feet from years gone by, lovingly supports so many as they step in interwoven complex figures. Interrupted only by the occasional blast of a foghorn, through the air resounds a stream of strange tunes from small countries often forgotten, played by instruments whose names I do not know. And, like they have on Wednesday evenings for decades and decades past, the people of the town gather together for a night of folk dancing.
We might know each other’s faces, for the town is not large. We know the names of our friends and family and neighbors. We know the footsteps of those who we’ve never met before, those who grew up and moved away and didn’t have such available summers anymore; they turn and stomp in the rhythms and patterns of our own, and that’s how we know without being introduced that we are deeply, intimately connected.
While the evening may be cool, within a song or two the firehouse is humid from the sweet and sticky sludge of sunscreen and sweat from the dozens and dozens of bodies. Mothers scold their children who sit on the open window sills to cool off between songs, a few stories up.
When I first started dancing, I liked the earlier dances the most, the ones meant to be enjoyable for the youngest children or the newer dancers, that can be picked up pretty quickly. I liked that the evening reaches its peak number of participants, with everyone together laughing, and panting, in sync. I liked the silliest dances, like the sheep and the wolf dance, or Sasha, or Pata Pata, which are always held in the first half, when the most people are present. I liked that I could see my cousins and aunts in the crowd before they left with the first wave; I liked that there were plenty of others, like me, who were considered outsiders; I liked not feeling completely alone when I first started coming to Woods Hole and knew no one except for those to whom I was related.
I giggle as my cousin and I crouch so as to fit underneath the archway created by the arms of a father and his daughter, who seems impossibly young and small, but somehow keeps up with the rest of us just fine. By 8:30, I see the duo make their exit, having outlasted most of the other young children who come to dance; the daughter is already asleep on her father’s shoulder, no doubt exhausted from jumping along with those three times her size.
So, too, do I see the last few out-of-towners make their retreat, either to their beds for the night or simply to the sidelines to watch the rest of us. As the evening progresses, so do the dances, until even the most devoted newcomer must admit a contented, tired defeat.
As the weeks and summers wore on and I learned the dances, my tastes changed; soon, I vastly preferred the dances that happened later, that pick up in tempo. With fewer children and first-timers, all of the dancers can make one circle, instead of two or three concentric rings. The organizers stop teaching each of the dances before the respective songs commence, trusting that the dancers remaining know the steps by heart already. I liked the challenge of picking up the vastly more complicated steps and configurations solely by imitation.
When I finally figured out the steps to the snake dance, I was so proud I nearly cried; its fast-paced stomps, with its hissing, and its darting, interlocked groups of three quickly became my favorite. The forceful changes of momentum shook something deep within me; the punctuating, prescribed howls awoke me on a deep level. It starts slowly, deceptively, with a gentle introduction from a lone violin, before it escalates into the fury that invites such endorphins, such pure joy.
Even those who have joined in on the dancing in previous summer sessions realize that this dance is not for the casual dancer. When they hear it begin, they step to the sidelines; if you’ve never taken part before, you might mistakenly believe that watching is just as fun. You might join the others who are already seated on the outskirts and watching, perhaps tourists dining in town whose curiosity was piqued by the strange music and the motley groups sitting on the front steps to catch their breath. The onlookers are likely filming with their phones, a relatively recent phenomenon, documenting the ceremony I hold so dear. Who wouldn’t want a piece of the dance to take home with them; who wouldn’t want evidence for the long winter months that no, the dance is not just a perennial dream?
Soon after the snake dance, we lose another third of the room, as all of the young people run outside to jump off of the bridge into the exhilaratingly brisk waters below. In August, the water lights up with each splash from bioluminescent jellyfish, which illuminate the next trembling volunteers who grasp the railing behind them for dear life. I’d always wanted to join them; while I’m sure I wouldn’t have been unwelcome, I’d never felt like I belonged with those who grew up in the town, or those who were the sixth generation to spend three months of their lives here since birth as dependable as the changing of the tides. Usually, most remaining observers have followed them out to watch.
Now, the real dance begins. Left in the room are almost entirely those my mother’s age and a generation older, those who started impossibly young and small decades and decades hence; the pulse of the music reverberates through their bodies just as strongly as that from the blood in their veins. Them, of course, plus me. Here, the dance turns frantic; convoluted, involuted, and ornate dances to songs not heard in years make their appearance, to which even my by now well-practiced feet don’t know the choreography. Sometimes I follow along behind the main group of eight or ten or so dancers, mimicking their footsteps, too unconfident to dance as part of the group without impeding the movements of the others. I struggle to keep up with those shockingly sprightly for their age, whose stamina seems to exceed mine. When one of the dancers extends a hand backward to me, inviting me to join the main line of people who really know what they’re doing, I consider the gesture the ultimate form of validation.
Together, we leap and we spin and we turn, hand in hand in hand in hand. We jump and march and trot and twirl in unison, sweat dripping from our bodies and consequently lubricating the floor and placing us in exceptional danger of slipping out of each other’s grasps. If we stepped in ink beforehand, our collective footprints would create a magnificent mandala of infinite intricacy. Until quite recently, this was my favorite part of the evening.
The group shrinks as the evening continues; by the end of the night, only a handful of people remain. It is late, much later than the advertised end of folk dancing, and though our bodies may now be tired beyond measure, our souls are wide, wide awake. After the escalating progression of tempo and difficulty, the soles of our thickly-calloused feet are sore; our breath has near escaped us; we are finally ready to call it a night.
But, first, one last dance.
Wordlessly, collectively, we know the moment has come even before the music starts. Regardless, the dulcet sound of a tongue incomprehensible but by no means unfamiliar removes any remaining doubt. We exchange the typical handhold used in most dances to an embrace much more intimate: we cross our right arms over our neighbor’s left, so that we are actually holding the hands of those to the outside of our immediate neighbors. This way, we are intertwined so tightly, we are woven like the fabric of this small community. The steps to this dance are, perhaps, the simplest yet, though as I try to recreate them now so far in time and space from this sacred ritual, they elude me. The pattern repeats, over and over, as the small ring rotates counterclockwise. The tempo is slow; we no longer race the beat like we have for the last dozen dances.
There is no one left to film this dance; it’s not nearly as exciting to watch anyhow, with the dancers’ backs to the walls and no space to peek between their bodies. While I do wish I had some better way of holding onto this custom that means so much, I’m grateful that there are no spectators, and that the only iteration of this moment isn’t virtual. It feels purer, more whole this way. I know no camera could capture the heat of those beside me, the gentle tug of those beside me, the shared love of dancing from those who dance beside me.
To the slow rhythm, I can close my eyes if I so desire, to focus purely on the feel of the sailors’ calloused hands in mine, on the waves of string and voice that encompass our group. I can finally feel and smell the breeze of salt and fish; the room isn’t quite so sticky as before. Sometimes, I prefer to keep my eyes open, to observe the satisfied, closed eyes and small but limitless smiles on the lips of my comrades.
I am the only one of my generation here, more often than not. I am not a sailor, nor a scientist. But shoulder to shoulder with those so much older and wiser than I, I feel more at home than any other time or place. The steps aren’t so challenging, or fun, or exciting, it’s true. But when the last song comes on at folk dancing, this, then, is my favorite time of night.
