You can’t go home again, they say. And you can’t go to Wasque again. At least not the way you left it, or may remember it. The Wasque now is no longer the home we recall. This Wasque will be our children’s and grandchildren’s Wasque, but it no longer belongs to our memory. All the markers have been erased by time and tide. I suppose this is neither good nor bad, happy or sad. But simply what is.

The Wasque that I remember was almost always approached in reverse from my accommodations in the back of my grandparents Plymouth satellite station wagon. I was the youngest and smallest of our extended family, so spaces usually reserved for coolers or spare tires were occupied by me, my back to the front, my front to the back. What lay ahead — the wide, sloping, sanding beaches — I was always the last to see. But I liked this life in rewind, I liked the way I’d feel where I was before I’d see it through the rear window. On the way to Wasque, up North Neck, left onto paved road, honk at Jerry’s, sharp right, sharp left — pitch pine, bayberry, seagulls — onto the dirt Wasque Road, I was alert and anticipatory. I was planning expeditions and snacks and meals — all pre-ordained, but still within my imaginative control. On the way home, wet and dry from water and salt, I’d be the last to see the approach to Wasque — the last to say goodbye. Those trips home were like a drug; baked groggy by the sun, I’d wish for the 20-minute trip to last forever.

Our grandparents’ home was on the water, on North Neck, and we all spent most of our time soaked in those outer harbor waters — scooping up jellyfish in paddle boats (making the territory safe for the old folk), swimming from dock to dock, searching for the flattest stones to skip. But that was the sea. Wasque was the ocean. There, waves would move your body rather than you moving them. There, formidable sand fortresses could be constructed and torn down, rather than the wee apartment buildings of North Neck that would wait hours for a the surf to overtake them. Wasque was wild. Wasque was everyone altogether. Wasque was Wasque.

I won’t miss the periwinkles discovered, wedged hours (sometimes days) later, in unmentionable body crevices. But I will miss everything else.

In other news: Poles are down, sun is hiding, beach plums are fading, and ivy is thriving.

Kim and I will be opening our modest golf course on North Neck as of this printing. We have revived its original name: The Royal and Ancient Chappaquiddick Links. The course will be private, out of many practical concerns, but we hope to accommodate folks through off-season events and the like. The land, the golf course, and history are dear to Kim and me and my family (Marshalls, Woodgers, Fynbos, Amazeens, Hudsons), and we hope all others appreciate the beauty of its existence.

I’ve been relatively cloistered here at the course as of late, but I will attempt to expand my horizons and open my ears to the rest of Chappy in my capacity as chief correspondent to the Gazette. I do know, however, that Patty Radway arrives for the summer (with daughter Debbie) at the Orange Mailbox. As always, please hesitate to send me news.

Finally, I believe that Annie Heywood is going to, or is already in, Russia. Perestroika? May it survive.

There is still room in the community center’s sailing and tennis classes. You can stop by the community center to get information and to register, or check the bulletin boards or Web site. Sailing begins the week of June 27, as does yoga (Tuesdays and Thursdays at 8 a.m.). Tennis classes begin July 5. Art classes with Laura Jemison begins that week; registration is through the Old Sculpin Gallery. Pilates starts Wednesday, July 6 at 9 a.m.

Jo-Ann Tilghman will be teaching her Latin Dance exercise class at the community center on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4:30 p.m., starting on Tuesday, June 21. Cost is $2 toward the tennis fund. Tai chi with Tom Pardee is Mondays and Fridays at 8 a.m. beginning June 27, free. Check for more information.