Cape Cod Memories

Early morning found us in a tight squeeze in that old blue 70’s station wagon. The sun was still asleep but I was eager to be on the road to our next adventure. My pillow pressed up against the cold window coated in early morning dew as we quietly backed out of the driveway and began the journey to the Atlantic. It would take two days to get there with an overnight stop in some remote American town where we would find respite before continuing on the long drive ahead. Roadside exits held picnics of egg salad and over run washrooms full of other weary travelers along the way. Twisted plastic drink holders of solid red and white hung precariously on the window frame waiting for that right pothole to dislodge it from its temporary perch. The drive was long and tiring and filled with scenery that sparked imagination of what lay beyond. Through mountains and valleys, on blacktop and concrete the road stretched out before us long and winding, always with the promise of vacation just on the other side of the next hill.

We would arrive at our destination early or midday and find quaint streets coated in light colored sand and pine needles. The air was thick with salt water taffy and ocean breezes just beyond and even it seemed to hold fine granules of sand that would come to rest on faces and grins of family reunions. Her house was seafoam green and quaint, with those same pine needles strewn where grass should have been and ceramic cats climbed the garage walls greeting visitors near the front door. Seashells were abundant and decorated quaint homes inside and out. It had the feel of a summer town, a place where tourists flocked as did copious numbers of seagulls in search of tasty seafaring morsels. The house was open and clean, airy and old timey. The floors were well worn wood, seemingly polished and shiny. The attic was a place of wonder for a child, filed with dusty boxes of memories she held on to and times she had forgotten. The beds were comfy, although foreign and there was defiantly a feeling of home. In the backyard the garden, overflowing with the abundance that only true green thumbs could evoke. Beans, radish and flowers fragrant mixed with the sea air and summer breeze. Tranquil and bustling at once that garden, more alive than a city, and more peaceful than an oasis. It was his pride and joy.

Days were spent at the beach, the drive there filled with aromatic roadside seafood stands and t-shirt sellers enticing you in with bargains and colorful signs. The parking lot at the beach was a flurry of activity, even in the early part of the day. Typically landlocked tourists clamoring for the best spot on the beach to rest their weary city bones. It was a hard fought battle climbing mountainous sand dunes to long stretching boardwalks leading to the sea. Excitement took over and fought the weary travelers exhaustion with the promise of cool ocean breezes and soft welcoming sandy seating. Dozens of colorful umbrellas dot the beach and the smell of cocoa butter and coconut fill the air. Finally at rest the we fought the urge to run to the ocean and dive in, opting instead for slow leisurely strolls down to the water. Watching the waves roll in just far enough that only our toes were grazed by the cold Atlantic sea. That first frigid step perhaps gave us pause before we committed to walking in to the water. Indentations of footprints washed away as the water rushed in over our feet and the sand escaped below. The waves revoked our chance at going slowly, pulling us in with each out flow. Suddenly we were hip deep, then chest deep, then had water on our faces. Fighting to keep our feet, first across jagged small shells burrowed in the sand below and the waves pulling at our ankles in the strong undertow. Once beyond that point the silky soft sand encompassed our feet and made our knees weak with relaxation. Looking back to our towels on the beach and realizing we were now hundreds of feet from where we had gone in, further down the beach and blissfully disoriented. Trudge back through the sand and crashing waves to line up once again with our spot on the beach, only to once again be mystically pushed along the coastline to an unfamiliar scene.

Out of the water our and back to our towels were we collapse in the warm summer sun. Keeping the towel free of sand is a tedious and pointless task. Reapply the sunscreen and feel the breeze drift effortlessly across our shoulders cool against our warm flesh. Sandcastles are created out of no where and knocked over by waves or annoying siblings. Rebuilding is part of the fun so there is nothing that can dampen these days. Finally the sun begins to go down over the horizon and we begin to pack up. Shake out sandy towels and fold up lazy chairs. Umbrellas folded down and carried under overfull arms back to the sandy parking lot. In the car and back to the house where the outdoor shower awaits. Sand is everywhere and washing it away seems daunting and somewhat pointless. Later in those evenings we travel to the town and get ice cream and shop for trinkets of cranberry glass and sweet smelling candles. It’s a feast for the senses here and objects of mystery are stacked with childlike wonder. The soft serve ice cream is sweet and becoming liquid faster than it can be eaten, dripping down hands and forearms making its escape. Mini golf courses are bursting with weary beach goers whose skin has reddened in the August sun. The course is line with quirky obstacles and impossible slopes, but the air is sweet and soft and there is no place we would rather be.