Nantucket is a small island off the southern shore of Cape Cod. It’s where the Pequod, Captain Ahab’s ship, set out to go whaling. Now it’s a vacation spot, where the population balloons in the summer and shrinks back to village-size every winter. In the grand scheme of no shirt, no shoes, no problem beach vacations, the Nantucket high-season crowd is still tiny compared to the Jersey Shore, the Hamptons or the Outer Banks.

But there is something magical about the island: If you put the word “Nantucket” on a product, people will buy it. In outlet malls across the country, you will find the word “Nantucket” on wicker baskets made in Pakistan, candles made in Mexico, knickknacks, T-shirts, boats, shoes, shovels, soft drinks, potting soil, novels, breakfast cereal, pork sausage, picture frames, cough drops, jeans, flip-flops, motor oil, bagels, boats, belt sanders, beer, flatware, latex paint and a few thousand other things. It seems that as long as an item has the word “Nantucket” on it somewhere, it is sure to fly off the shelf.

I am writing this column in Nantucket. Actually, I’ve never been there. But I’m hoping that just by writing the word, some of its magical selling power will rub off on me and make me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. And believe me, I have some pretty wild dreams, many of them involving Formula One racing cars, eight-patty cheeseburgers, spectacular blondes and champagne-filled Jacuzzis.