30 October 2015.
So over the summer I spontaneously road-tripped up to Rhode Island (The Ocean State, according to the license plates). August’s last weekend was drawing to a close, and on that fateful Saturday evening I paid a visit to Providence, a city that had occupied a spot on my bucket list for years. The night’s schedule consisted of a single event: Waterfire. It occurs every year, every other weekend, May through October. In the “grand canal” running through the city are buoys and concrete boxes holding metal baskets filled with logs to be set on fire after the sunset. That night, the sun disappeared over the horizon at 7:26 p.m., and as darkness descended, the log-filled boats began to glide over the water to light the firewood.
The show began immediately after the sun set: a biker gang, riding two by two, drove down the street across the canal as the crowd watched in awe. There were maybe 50 altogether, with a lit up miniature car trailing the motorcycles--it was as small as a clown car but as modern and ultracool as a maserati with LED blue and red lights, causing it to glow from the inside out.
As darkness descended upon my corner of the universe around eight, the music began to play and the boats began their rounds. The omnipresent sounds echoing from the high-quality speaker systems were a pleasing motley of Native American tribal tunes, Latin American tango, Italian opera, and the occasional Celtic bagpipe.
The first boat to arrive on the scene was named Prometheus--and on the bow of the small vessel stood a Native American man, head shaved to the point of reflection, with a long braid extending past his waist and protruding from the sole un-bald spot on the back of his shiny scalp. The man was like a circus performer--in his black gloved hands he held two long chains with flames at the ends that he proceeded to spin in various directions as the music intensified--a spectacle, truly. He didn’t wear a shirt, but his pants were perfect for the occasion: black, with a reddish-orange flame design on each leg, the “fire” extending from the hem to just below the knee.
At the stern of Prometheus stood a woman, accompanied by a five-person crew and thousands of cut up logs awaiting their blazing destiny. The entire crew was clothed in black from head to toe; they disappeared into the darkness upon departure from the flames, which added a unique mystique to the entire event. Twelve blocks of concrete protruded confidently in a single-file line from the water, with metal rods piercing through the center of each square; fastened firmly atop the rods were metal baskets filled with foot-long logs leaning against each other to form pyramids. The man with the swinging flames lit each one of the pyramids and the fires slowly crackled to life amid pops and explosions and flying sparks and embers. Every 40 minutes (more or less) Prometheus circled back and added fresh lumber to the baskets, rekindling the flames that gently sent waves of heat towards the crowd.
Prometheus wasn’t the only vessel swimming across the canal. In my bridged-off section was a pair of gondoliers and their respective gondolas, paddling back and forth along the canal, ducking as they passed underneath the pedestrian Venetian-esque bridges. Even the gondoliers looked Venetian: one wore a shirt with black and white stripes while the other bore the same, but with red and white. The men were long and thin, donned in black pants and shoes as well as straw hats with red satin ribbons tied around the base; not a single detail was overlooked. The gondolier in the black-striped shirt was my personal favorite: along with his red-ribboned hat, his attire consisted of thick-rimmed black glasses (probably Ray Bans) and a boyish and youthful smile.
Small passenger boats also helped fill the space, and these were filled with everyday people that wanted VIP passes. The funny part is that the majority of passengers were over 60 (because only old people have enough money to enjoy the paid luxuries of life). The (young) crowds along the canal were seated wherever they could find an empty space, from benches to decorative concrete slabs to whatever other open spots they could find. I was one of the lucky ones that found an opening on the raised concrete bench right in front of the fence that, on a regular day, barricades the crowds from the water.
Every once in awhile a boat with a unique passenger would swim by--the passenger was a man dressed in black and white, hunched over like a witch. Except he wasn’t a witch: he handed out beautiful carnations with notes attached to whatever patrons he came closest to as his small black vessel circled its rounds.
Among the many interesting things I saw that night were the human statues: volunteers were dressed to the nines in strange costumes, from all-white to witches and wizards to gargoyles. They remained still for some time but every once in awhile, when a tourist came around looking to take a picture in front of them, they would move ever so slightly: the woman in white would extend an arm around around the subject and smile discreetly; the gargoyles would place a hand on the top of the fearless child’s head; the wizard would tilt his head and lift his wand. As I stood a small distance away from one of the gargoyles to snap a shot, he suddenly looked in my vicinity and jumped down from the fountain ledge, causing me, and maybe one other person, to scream in fear. Then he trudged around the area for a minute or two before returning to his post, but my heart was racing and I was still terrified for half an hour after that. To calm my nerves, I wandered around the area; I bought a Doughboy, sprinkled enough powdered sugar and cinnamon on it to feed a small army, and sat down near a miniature courtyard opened up for tango dancers.
The tango dancers weren’t what I expected when I saw the night’s itinerary: I assumed the couple would be young, lithe, and intensely powerful. Instead it was an older couple, moving slowly to the music, but still moving with ease and rhythm. The woman had her black hair cut into an angled bob, with red and white flowers tucked in; she wore a white top and a royal red skirt with sparkly heels. The man had on a suit to match: white jacket, red dress shirt, white bow tie, a red ascot in the breast pocket; he wore black pants and shoes, a contrast to his white hair, dark eyebrows, and light gray goatee-beard mix. In the background stood the man with the swinging flames, balancing on a board between two fence rails on a concrete island in the middle of the canal. I was mesmerized by the flames, spinning spinning spinning faster fasterfaster s l o w e r faster as he made circles with his arms, then swung the fire crossbody, then spun it fastest to extinguish the flames altogether.
Later on I wove my way through the crowds to the other end of the event; as I walked closer to the center of the city, the canal opened up into a circular lake-type thing where the number of boats was more concentrated. I enjoyed watching the various vessels swim around like guppies, and I noticed others named after Greek gods: there was one called Phoebus, after Phoebus Apollo, which made me think back to the Prometheus that I’d originally seen. And then I made a connection, which may or may not be an actual explanation: Prometheus was the boat that the entire event began with, and the god Prometheus is renowned for giving mortals the ultimate gift of fire. And I smiled, and continued to sit and stare and admire the diverse Providence skyline (each skyscraper is different, and it creates a unity I’d never seen before), the perfect weather, and the synchronicity of it all. The night was magical; it was an altogether out-of-planet experience, and I’ll never forget it.
August 29, 2015: I thought I’d seen it all, but clearly I hadn’t. Providence, I love you.
