Thimble Islands | Tour Connecticut's Vacation Retreat
Later that day, back on the mainland, on Captain Bob’s recommendation I walked up the road to the new Stony Creek Museum, housed in a handsome former church near the train trestle. The exhibits include sepia-tinged photos of old marching bands and creaky-looking 19th-century seaside buildings with deep-set wrap-around porches. I learned that tourist traffic began in 1852, when the New Haven & New London Railroad started service here, and boomed in the late 19th century. The village population tripled, with many new residents catering to vacationers.And the museum dwells long and lovingly on the role of quarries, with intriguing black-and-white photos and examples of old tools. As I examined a large mallet, a no-nonsense woman in a pink blouse and wire-rim glasses walked over. “Quarry workers came from Sweden and England and Finland and Italy,” she told me, “and their descendants are still here.” She introduced herself as Judy Robison, chair of the board of the new museum and, I later learned, the small institution’s driving force.
I told her I was curious about the islands, and she pointed out a weathered sign that read Bathers Please Be Quiet During the Church Service. It had come from Money Island, one of the more populated (and, actually, least wealthy) of the Thimbles. And, as it happened, that’s where she and her husband had lived summers for years, in a former small hotel they’d bought some time ago. “We have the grandkids out there—barefoot all summer and no television,” she told me. They cadge a little electricity from the sun via solar panels, but not much. “I can’t use a vacuum cleaner very often,” she said, “and that’s not a complaint.”
She paused a moment and seemed to be gauging the depth of my curiosity. “You want to see an island?” she finally asked. About a half-hour and a short boat ride later, we were walking around Money Island, seeing where the bathers once threatened to distract churchgoers, and where an old phone booth now serves as the island’s library, piled with books for swapping.
I’d noticed that Captain Bob sold “pirate maps” on board his boat for three dollars, but sitting on Robison’s porch with Judy, her husband, one of her kids, some grandkids, and a neighbor who had dropped by, I asked about another map I’d been given by my motel manager back in town. It was titled “Christine’s Islands.”
When I mentioned it, they smiled, perhaps a bit tightly, then pointed out several islands between the porch and the mainland. Each of them had bright flags fluttering from three-armed nautical flagpoles. And all these islands were acquired, mostly in the past decade, by Christine Svenningsen, the widow of a man who’d made his fortune in a way that would have mystified the old railroad tycoons: He built an empire of party-supply stores.
Svenningsen now owns 10 islands, including the jewel in the crown, Rogers—the one with the palm trees and greenhouse. She doesn’t give press interviews or talk about why she’s so fond of owning these islands, so a favored pastime among Islanders and Creekers alike is to speculate about what she’s up to and wonder why her islands often sit empty through the summer. Turns out there are more theories than islands, none very satisfying.
While we talked, it struck me: Captain Bob had never mentioned Svenningsen on the tour. Paraphrasing poet Adrienne Rich, Jonathan R. Wynn, author of The Tour Guide, notes that “every point on the map is not just a place in history, but multiple points.” It’s a different point for an ecologist, a historian, a folklorist, or a summer person. Or for a tour guide, who has to navigate a treacherous course around not only rocks but also local sensibilities. A tour guide possesses an invisible map, filled with things that don’t get mentioned. Captain Bob doesn’t name names of the living; he has to stay on good terms with the residents. He confided to me that Garry Trudeau, the Doonesbury cartoonist and husband of broadcaster Jane Pauley, takes him aside early each summer and asks him not to point out his house on the tour. Captain Bob chuckles, because he wouldn’t do that anyway. It’s a small community, after all.
But someday, years from now, another tour guide will pilot slowly through here and talk about a famous cartoonist who once lived here and worried about his privacy, and a wealthy widow who had the money to buy island after island. Passengers will smile and murmur.
Captain Bob pilots us back into the harbor, and soon he’ll climb out and smoke one cigarette, then get ready for another group of passengers, and another 45 minutes of bringing rocks to life and keeping local ghosts alive.