Mysterious Mr. President: Obama on the Vineyard, by Holly Nadler

Mysterious Mr. President: Obama on the Vineyard, by Holly Nadler

He's the most well-known unknown man in the Western world.

President Barack Obama has now graced our Island for three of the past four summers, with another vacation rumored for this August.

And yet we feel no closer to him than to anyone we've never met in Nebraska.

After months of trawling for information, even I came up empty on juicy tidbits. So we have to ask: Under the president's demeanor of pure courtliness, is there a human being who has, say, digestive issues, or who loses his three daily Marlboros?

Perhaps some scenes of his time on island may give us glimpses into the inner Barack—or not.

In 2010, the First Family hopped over on Air Force One, outfitted in clothes that screamed "Beach time!" A dissipating tropical storm whooshed in behind them, so for the first days they stayed indoors to read books and play Taboo and Scrabble.

Is this the most flexible president ever?

Island businesses broke out in giddy consumerism. Sharky's Cantina in Oak Bluffs brought back the Obamarita with the president's favorite fruits. The Locker Room, also in Oak Bluffs, sold 4,000 T-shirts that declared: "I Vacationed With Obama."

Was he happy to be feeding the local economy?

On a sunny day, Obama, a niece and a daughter popped in on Alley's, the 152-year-old general store in West Tisbury. The prez was—what else?—Prince Charming to all the kids behind the counter. He offered to stake his girls to whatever they desired. They selected slim sacks of Astronaut Ice Cream, that odd freeze-dried sweet that makes you think you'd need to be a hundred miles above the stratosphere to enjoy it.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" the president asked, showing his innate distaste for trendy spending.

One noxious issue arose that may have hinted at micro-managing the Gulf clean-up: Tisbury Great Pond, which wraps around the 20-plus million dollar farmhouse housing the Obamas during their vacations, was—are you ready for this—rife with enterococci. And what is enterococci? Well, it's not E. coli, but neither is it recommended you give yourself a facial with it. No matter, the president avoided the icky pond and instead golfed, shot hoops and escorted his daughters for their 93rd ice cream cones of the day.

Obama lesson: No worries on holiday.

Leadership tendencies aside, we discovered not a single goofy thing about Obama that could render him a regular guy who cheats at gin rummy or does Minnie Mouse impressions after sucking on a helium balloon.

But then I personally discovered a tidbit—well, a possibility of a tidbit. Something missed by all the other publications and news industries.

On an overcast day in the winter of 2010-2011 I drove out to the Obama rental for two summers running, Blue Heron Farm off South Road in Chilmark. I motored through the entrance, past the No Trespassing signs, past the many ancillary lodgings, all of them deserted at this time of the year, circumnavigating the massive fields, to park beyond the flagpole where I gazed upon the rambling, many-gabled country home.

I got out of the car. I peered in windows, circling the house down the western flank to the eastern, more private exposure.

Don't tell anybody.

I came upon an outdoor shower with antique copper fixtures, the nozzle big as an old radio-days microphone. No screen or curtain sheltered the shower. No hook or rod for a screen or curtain was anywhere in sight.

So, away from the public eye, and away from his own security detail, should the leader of the free world decide to take an outdoor shower, no one would have been the wiser . . . except scores of neighbors across the cove with binoculars stuck to their faces.

And how 'bout them paparazzi? No, they were situated on the western side of the grounds. We know this because no unauthorized shots of a naked president made it into the press.

So if Obama did indulge in a very Vineyard outdoor shower—and what fit, joyful, savor-the-moment, finger-snappin' shower-boppin' kinda guy, the kinda guy who's buttoned up all day and craves a private freak-out, wouldn't want to? — well, we can only hope he grabbed that opportunity.

Many times.

The original version of the post was published on MV Patch March 21, 2011. Read Holly's new serial novel, "Lady Slipper Farm and the Summer People," on Patch. We're publishing a classic "Vineyard Confidential" column each Saturday.

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