In 1959, two fourteen-year-old boys – Geoff and Peter – climbed aboard a train at midnight in Stamford, Connecticut and headed to Providence, Rhode Island – one hundred-twenty miles away. Arriving at 2:30 AM, they dragged their camping gear to the local bus station and waited four hours to be taken to New Bedford, Massachusetts – thirty miles farther. From there they located the ferry that took them on a two-and-a-half-hour ride across Buzard’s Bay to the small island of Cuttyhunk. Once there, they made camp on a nearby beach, known as Barges Beach. They called that home for three weeks.
Vague explanations were given in the book, No Palm Trees on Cuttyhunk, about how the young teens were given parental permission to make such a trip alone. In today’s world, activists would swarm with signs condemning parental abandonment or even parental neglect for allowing a child to be left unsupervised in unsafe or potentially unsafe situations. They would press Child Protective Services to take the children and jail the parents. How could any loving, responsible parent allow their child to travel alone and without supervision in America’s inner cities or permit them to amble in search of a bus station in the middle of the night?
Geoff’s father was an over-controlling authoritarian. His method of raising his boys was intentionally harsh to toughen them up for the world. While hard on his boys, no one was more loving and protective than him. Before permissions were given, Geoff was certain he would not be allowed to go.
Cuttyhunk is small – measured in acres, not square miles. Winter population dwindled to about ten residents, swelling to around four-hundred during the summer. The boys camped on an open beach where any resident with a telescope could spy on them without detection. And they did. Peter’s family knew an island family who knew more island families. Peter’s parents, supportive of the adventure, assured Geoff’s parents that the boys would not be invisible and they would be supervised and watched as if they were at home.
Geoff’s father spent his nights and weekends teaching Geoff how to prepare a budget, carry money, investigate his surroundings for signs of danger, how to handle drunks on trains and in bus stations. While Geoff absorbed it all, his self-confidence and self-esteem remained in a shambles because of his father’s strict and disciplined ways.
When the boys disembarked on the island, they were already a known entity, and the island was on high alert. For mischievous teenage boys, justice is swift, and expulsion is immediate. The islanders meant business then and they still do today. If Geoff and Peter were to attempt camping there now-a-days, they would be intercepted at the island’s main dock, interrogated, and detained until ushered back onto the departing afternoon ferry.
In 1959, a mere fourteen years after the end of World War II when the war remained a raw but healing wound, the nation’s values and much of its culture were steadfastly universal. Times were different. Children were safer. Parents became protectors of children whether their own or others. Even while far from home, there were always protective eyes watching. While alone without parents, the boys were never without supervision or protection. They just didn’t know it.
In 1960, Geoff returned to the island to work as a kitchen boy. He arrived in New Bedford without money for a room, boat fare, or food. His attempts to trade labor for a bed were fruitless. A fifteen-year-old boy carrying a small bag with clothing and toiletries? He had to be run-away. That spelled mischief. Doors closed in his face. As the day began to darken, a desperate Geoff stopped a neighborhood policeman and asked to be jailed for the night. The policeman chuckled and looked him over with the scrutiny of a chicken with one eye fixed on a grub. After a series of questions, the officer decided Geoff was not a run-away and walked him over to Mr. Ryan’s apartment where Geoff was given shelter and food from a local, a stranger to Geoff. And Geoff felt safe. While this feels and sounds like horrifying story destined for a bad ending, it is consistent with the values and culture of post-war America. In the following summers when Geoff spent the night in New Bedford, he would look up his friend, Mr. Ryan. In 1964 someone else opened the door and apologized. Mr. Ryan was no longer there. He had died the previous winter.