Cindy, many of our readers will recognize you as the past executive director of NAMI Rhode Island and the former assistant director of the Hassenfeld Institute for Public Leadership at Bryant University, among other positions. And many will know you as the current executive director of the Barrington Land Conservation Trust. But you have just opened a new chapter as an author. Congratulations! Your recently completed historical novel is If the Sea Must be Your Home. We’ll get into it momentarily, but first, what inspired you to write a novel?
I have always been a voracious reader with a taste for anything that pulls me into a new world. I love epic historical narratives and high-quality historical fiction. I am somewhat addicted to murder mysteries, and I maintain a steady diet of poetry.
As a lifelong writer, I’ve constantly challenged myself to try new forms of expression. Poetry, journalism, songwriting, documentaries, memoirs, cookbooks – it’s all delicious to me. It was only a matter of time before I tried my hand at a historical novel. I’ve been developing book concepts for years.
Three years ago, I tripped over a story that demanded to be written. I carved out time between work and family to delve into the research and writing that would result in the two-book series, If the Sea Must Be Your Home. Based on hundreds of pages of handwritten documents from the 1800s, the story reveals the inner thoughts of a seafaring family at a time of change and division in our country.
Storytelling allows us to portray truths that transcend the news of the day. We invite readers into a safe space where they can accept and even fall in love with flawed people, the only kind that exist. This novel elevates the voices of sailors, soldiers, women and slaves, speaking through history in their own voices.
Now, some writing background please. You write on your web site that “my writing life began when I could grip a crayon and misspell a few words. I found my voice in poetry and honed it as a newspaper reporter, movie producer and radio host.” Give us some detail.
My love of the written word began shortly after the death of my first father, Peter Andrews, when I was four years old. Writing helped me to make sense of my life. Spelling be damned, I scratched out poems phonetically in a scrapbook gifted to me by my grandmother, Emmie Mygatt, a writer of boys’ adventure stories. In my teens, she sent my adolescent musings to literary journals well beyond my reach and counseled me to “paper my wall with rejection slips.”
I come from a family of writers. My mother, Barbara Hail, authored several books through her work with the Haffenreffer Museum of Anthropology. Growing up, I observed her working long into the evening, papers spread over the dining room table. I watched her interview tribal elders, where she demonstrated the power of listening. Through her silence, she provided space for the elders to reflect.
Storytelling has driven my checkered career. I went to Roger Williams University in the 1980s (when it was a college) and double-majored in creative writing and career writing. That opened the door for me to work at the Middleboro Gazette under the brilliant editor Jane Lopes. Back then, we typed our stories into huge Compugraphic typesetting machines. On production day, the news team became the production team as we affixed strips of copy to boards that were then shipped off to the printer.
Working at the Gazette opened my eyes to people I might never have encountered in my daily life. I spent hours chatting with a woman living in her car, speaking through a crack in her window. I attended church picnics, murder trials and town meetings. I interviewed farmers and Vietnam vets, recovering heroin addicts and local leaders. They honored me with their truths.
After college I ended up in Orlando, Florida, where I landed a job on WBZS Business Radio, working morning drive with a great news director, Ken Rabac. “You’re not speaking to ten thousand people,” he counseled me. “You’re speaking to one guy in his car.” As a writer, I try to speak to that one reader who’s living their life and just hoping to escape into another time or place for a little while.
In those early days of my career, I had more time than money, so I volunteered with Hospice of Central Florida in patient care. They soon discovered I was a writer. I scripted a promotional video which won the National Hospice Organization’s excellence in media award. This led to a short stint with Ivanhoe Communications, which hired me to produce a nationally syndicated documentary on domestic violence (Behind Closed Doors: Battle on the Home Front) and education segments for network affiliates. One thing leads to the next!
You also write that your dedication to volunteerism led you to “one of the largest hospice organizations in the country, where I became director of communications. Since then, I’ve been a wandering minstrel of nonprofits, telling the story of organizations that provide food, education, mental health services and outdoor experiences to those who need it most.” Again, some detail please.
I was drawn to hospice because of the losses I experienced early in life. Volunteering forced me to deal with my lingering grief, because you can’t support others while you’re struggling with your own issues. This led to one of the most rewarding jobs in my career, director of communications for Hospice of Central Florida. I loved the people with whom I interacted: patients, caregivers, nurses, social workers, chaplains, doctors, home health aides, volunteers, bereavement counselors. They became my friends at a time when I felt alone. I’m still in touch with the former CEO, Brenda Horne, a leader who challenged me and lifted me up.
I listened to the stories of patients approaching the end of life, parents facing the loss of a child, survivors trying to move on. I came to view communications as a form of caregiving, by giving voice to those who needed to share their stories and preserving the dignity of silence for those who wished to remain private. As a former journalist, I had empathy for reporters, too, and did my best to provide accurate information and interesting storylines.
Much later, when life returned me to Rhode Island, I served several years as director of communications for the Rhode Island Community Food Bank, working alongside Lisa Roth Blackman and Andrew Schiff, two inspiring leaders who remain friends. While working at the Food Bank and raising two teenage daughters, I returned to school (at the tender age of 50) to seek a master’s degree in public affairs at Brown University. It’s never too late! This degree helped me to obtain leadership roles in a series of small nonprofits.
I served as assistant director of the Hasssenfeld Institute for Public Leadership, and as executive director of Coggeshall Farm Museum and the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) of Rhode Island. I left the nonprofit world for three years to serve a short-term contract with RI State Parks as chief of business development. Let’s just say I’ve made the rounds. Every job I’ve held opened the window into another corner of our world.
For the last two years, I’ve been having a ball as the first executive director of the Barrington Land Conservation Trust. This half-time, hyper-local position energizes me as I work alongside more than 100 volunteers to protect open space and educate the public about our natural resources. The role also gives me the time and head space I need to pursue my personal writing projects. I’m fortunate to have this kind of life balance, but then, at 64 years old, there’s no time like the present to pursue your dreams.
And a bit more about this statement on your site: “Along the way, I fell in love, raised two daughters, and wrote a few books, most of which I completed on behalf of the organizations I served. In my spare time, I’ve written family histories, cookbooks, poems, travel articles, opinion pieces, and a memoir.”
I met the great love of my life, Bob Elder, at a party at my family’s house in Barrington, RI when I was 34. I was living in Florida, he in Massachusetts. He arrived “fresh” from the Figawi sailboat race, rugged and windblown. I flew up to Boston for our first date – a week on his sailboat. Thirty years later, we’re still sailing together with our two daughters, Emily (27) and Elizabeth (25). So writing about sailing and the sea comes naturally to me.
This is not my first book, but it’s the first I’ve done entirely on my own. I co-authored a retrospective on the Haffenreffer Museum’s education program and a history of the Gordon School. Both of these projects involved searching through dusty attics and basements for forgotten records and conducting interviews to flesh out missing pieces of the story. As a freelance writer, I wrote travel articles for AAA World Magazine, great training for writing a book about circumnavigating the globe. Every job I’ve had has involved writing, whether it’s opinion pieces or annual reports. During the pandemic, I wrote a memoir (didn’t everybody?), which may someday see the light of day.
I’m one of those people who just has to write. It’s always been that way. From the age of 11, I’ve created chapbooks of my poetry to share with my family. In my 20s and 30s, I expanded that effort to include family cookbooks and anecdotal family histories.
OK, now If the Sea Must be Your Home. Can you give us an overview?
If the Sea Must Be Your Home is the true story of a seafaring family from West Barnstable, Massachusetts, during the final chapter of the Great Age of Sail and the tumultuous years of the Civil War. The story reveals the inner thoughts of a lonely shipmaster as he traverses the vastness of the sea, writing to the woman he loves. Through their own words, the book elevates the experiences of women who braved years-long sailing voyages and the stories of soldiers and slaves as our country was torn apart at the seams.
What was the inspiration?
I first encountered a transcription of a letter from Captain James Hamblin Jenkins while working on a family history book in 1999. Penned in the 1860s by my husband’s great-great-grandfather, the letter brought to life the experience and private thoughts of a young captain, separated by oceans from those he loved. At the time, I assumed it was the only record which existed of his writing.
Twenty-five years later I discovered that this letter was just one of many documents detailing the life of the seafaring family portrayed in If the Sea Must Be Your Home. Hundreds of pages of handwritten documents, safely stored by my husband’s family for more than 150 years, slowly emerged from boxes preserved by my brother-in-law Charlie Elder after my husband’s parents died. I became entranced by the words of Ruth Jenkins, who wrote of her lengthy voyages with James aboard the Hoogly and major events in our country’s history, as seen through the eyes of a woman before women could vote.
You have a blog with updates about the novel. What will readers find there?
Readers will uncover the story behind the story – the tale of how a historical novel comes together and the surprises encountered along the way. If you’re interested in sailing, lighthouses, the evolution of civil rights, the Civil War, the Great Age of Sail, or a good old-fashioned love story, you’ll find something to chew on. Writers and aspiring novelists will connect with how a single thread of information can lead to a motherlode of content.
As if all this were not enough, you are a poet, too. What are some of your favorite subjects?
It’s hard to nail down a favorite subject. I seek moments of clarity, when the commonplace resonates at some deeper level. For example, “The Last Box” lists the final things I packed when moving from our old house into our current home. Each item shimmered with meaning when I unpacked them, and this became a poem.
You have agreed to share the opening of your new book and here it is:
If the Sea Must be Your Home: The Journey Begins
By Cynthia Andrews Elder
© 2023 Cynthia Andrews Elder
“We shall soon rapidly recede from our native land, which should I live, I cannot expect to see short of two years. Waft us on ye winds and bear us far away from home and kindred. I am with my Husband and by him I will remain. No seas can now divide us.
He can have no trouble, no sorrow, but what I can know and share. When perplexed with the duties of the ship and those with whom he is connected, I can soothe all ruffled feelings, take up much of his attention and mind. If sick, no hand like mine can sooth the sad heart and administer to his wishes. I am confident.
Let what come, I shall never regret coming on voyage with My Dear Companion’s society, also with the conviction in coming I did perfectly right. With books and work to take up all leisure moments, everything done for my comfort and accommodation, I have need of nothing more and gladly, willingly resign all friends and home and native land.”
~ Mary Brewster
She Was a Sister Sailor: Mary Brewster’s Whaling Journals, 1845-1851,
edited by Joan Druett
Chapter One
Joseph Nickerson
April 25, 1830
Sandy Neck Lighthouse, Barnstable, Massachusetts
Hundreds of ships lay at anchor in Barnstable Harbor, sheltered by the arm of Cape Cod, a narrow peninsula that rose like a fist against the Atlantic Ocean. An old dory tacked across the water at first light, criss-crossing her way toward Beach Point.
Joseph Nickerson, first keeper of the light, stood on the shore, alert to the west wind that ruffled what remained of his wiry gray hair, flattened down under his wool cap. He unbuttoned his long sou’wester coat and let it flap in the breeze, soaking in the early spring warmth. Joseph’s oilskin bibs would be sufficient for the day.
In good conditions, it took a week or more for happenings to reach Joseph Nickerson. Time travelled at a different pace out here at Beach Point, the far eastern end of Sandy Neck, where he kept vigil over the waters of Cape Cod Bay. Six miles of fine-grained sand lay between him and the West Parish of Barnstable.
Joseph adhered to the long list of expectations required of United States lighthouse keepers, most of which related to maintenance of the light and budgeting of oil, tasks any man might do. It was a rare soul who accepted the post, however, for the keeper could not absent himself from the lighthouse at any time without permission from the Superintendent of Lighthouses, a request which might be weeks in the making.
Weather permitting, Percy Stone sailed his sixteen-foot dory out to Sandy Neck once a week to bring Joseph his groceries, mail and newspaper, and to gossip like only two old men could do. Two empty mugs sat on Joseph’s kitchen table in anticipation.
Percy could travel to the lighthouse by horse if he had a whole day to spare, but that long ride didn’t sit well with his aching backside these days. The packet boat, carrying essentials from Boston to the townsfolk, rarely dropped anchor at the lighthouse on its way into Barnstable Harbor. Percy was thus Joseph’s tendril to the world. Joseph didn’t mind the solitude, but he did watch the horizon with a keener eye when Percy’s boat was due.
“Terrible news about the Bennett boy” said Percy, sipping Joseph’s thick hot brew that tasted more of burnt potatoes than coffee. “Mate on the Woodrop Sims. Won’t be coming home, poor lad. Fell overboard and couldn’t swim.”
Another boy drowned. Another one lost to the sea. The notice posted in the Meetinghouse had been brief: J. Bennett lost at sea on April 19, 1830. The words seemed too small to hold the shape of a young man’s life.
Joseph stared at the black swirl of coffee in his mug. He called to mind the Bennett family pitching in when Barnstable’s first lighthouse had risen up out of the dunes just four years earlier. The whole town had shown up to help lay brick or hammer nails or take the measure of the out-of-town builder who’d won the low bid for construction of the lighthouse, while the ladies handed out provisions from their baskets, laden with meat pies and cheese.
“That boy’s compass pointed toward the sea from the start,” said Joseph. “Nothing was going to hold him back. He would chatter on about his plans, just that eager to ship out. He told me I’d see him out there in one of those three-masted barques. Said he was going to sail ’round the Horn.” Joseph stared out the window toward the rising tide. “Damn shame.”
“Well, it’s not all bad news,” said Percy. “George Jenkins and his girl Eliza Hinckley – you know George, he’s got that place out on the plains between the West Parish and Marston’s Mills – they’re going to get hitched. Hard to imagine their boys won’t go to sea.”
Percy loaded Joseph’s outgoing mail into his oil cloth bag. “I’d best get along,” he said.
“Till next week then, God willing,” said Joseph. He handed Percy a parcel of fish wrapped in last week’s newspaper.
“Thanks for the stripers,” Percy said, loading them in the dory. “Charity will be pleased to see them, first catch of the season, and I’ll have a fine dinner.”
Joseph and Percy pushed the dory out into the waves. Percy clambered in, grabbed the oars, and rowed his craft into the wind. He hoisted the small four-cornered spritsail. Hand on the tiller, Percy steered the boat to port, the 45-degree left turn filling the sail.
A fresh breeze picked up and carried Percy around the sandy peninsula and back into Barnstable Harbor. Joseph watched the tiny boat navigate between fishing boats and schooners, clipper ships and row boats, laid out like chess pieces on a crowded, sun-dappled board.
Joseph spread the Barnstable Patriot and Commercial Advertiser on the table, settling in with a second cup of coffee and a boiled egg. The day stretched out ahead of him, with clear skies and quiet seas licking the shore. He had time to read every word.
The front page proclaimed the flurry of work around Barnstable’s 200th birthday, which was nine years off, for heaven’s sake. Already committees were forming to plan the celebration.
Below the fold he read about the latest treaty President Jackson and his cronies were offering the Indians, undoubtedly another attempt to hornswoggle them into giving up what’s theirs.
Pretty contemptable what Jackson had done to those Indian folks already, thought Joseph, forcing them to hand over twenty million acres of land in the South, as if there weren’t enough territory out there for all of us. Ever since that man got in office, seems he’s had a personal vendetta against those people. Wants to wipe them out, and looks like he may well do it, given the rope these politicians were giving him.
Well, at least Congress anted up $3,500 to build this lighthouse, Joseph reasoned, though it wouldn’t have happened if the town hadn’t handed them the two-acre parcel for a dollar. Just like always. The ratbags in Washington get the credit, and the local folks do the work.
“I suppose I can’t complain,” Joseph said to himself, “given that it’s been my home these last four years.”
Joseph folded up the newspaper and refilled his coffee, then climbed the spiral steps to the top of the sixteen-foot wooden tower that rose above the keeper’s solid brick house. It would be hours before he had to light the beam that reached sailors a dozen nautical miles off the coast of Massachusetts on a clear night. The ocean lay soft and still, in one of its sultry moods, quiet as a whisper. He checked the ten lamps and the reflectors arranged in two tiers around the light. Everything looked in order.
He turned toward the southwest, scanning the absolute emptiness of the dunes which rolled like giant swells on an ocean of sand, held together by a carpet of beachgrass. As the season progressed, the dunes would become interlaced with cranberry vines, beach plums, blueberries, dusty miller and roses. Along the eastern end of Sandy Neck, the dunes gave way to forests dotted with stands of oak trees and holly.
Joseph opened the log, dipped his fountain pen into the inkwell and wrote: “Light wind from the west, shifting south. Low clouds, storm on the horizon.”
Then he opened his Bible to a page dogeared and yellowed from overuse, Psalm 107: They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.
You are seeking a publisher for If the Sea Must be Your Home. Where should prospective publishers go to learn more?
Thanks for asking, Wayne! I welcome literary agents or publishers to reach out to me at cynthia@cynthiaelder.com or through any of these platforms:
I invite readers to subscribe to my blog and follow me on the social platforms they prefer. These days, most writers have to be their own publicists, so I’m grateful for every like, share and follow. And thank you, Wayne, for the opportunity to participate in Ocean State Stories. Such a privilege.
