Seven loads of laundry and a thorough car wash later, I am feeling recovered from the annual Cape experience. (OK, two
loads of laundry were pre-existing – but they still needed to be done, so now I am feeling fully caught up.) Going to
the Cape is like going to summer camp; there’s a constant, pervasive dampness, the
shower is not welcoming – to put it kindly – and you spend a lot of time doing things that attract dirt and grit
to your person. Accordingly, my policy is to wash everything I packed – sheets, towels, blankets, the “clean”
clothes I didn’t wear – immediately upon my return to civilization. If
Black Flag made a disinfectant, I’d add it to the wash, but for now I just have to hope the Clorox gets it done.
The Cape week has certain key elements that don't vary much from year to year – the Dogs of Navarone
barking in Cletus’s yard across the street each day, our evening playing Pirate’s Cove mini-golf, the fungal nature
of the shower, multiple Christmas Tree Shop expeditions, Uncle Kenny’s breakfast cooking, daily trips to Dunkin Donuts
at six a.m. in my pajamas, Tom getting the paper every morning (and bagels on Sunday), and all of us sitting around reading
for hours and hours in a huge circle of chairs out in the yard. The best parts of the week, though, might be those times when
we put our books on our laps for a while to participate in a rolling, chaotic conversation. Themes change year to year –
this year, a key topic seemed to be our love lives, with those of us who are single providing entertainment for the married
contingent. After some back and forth on what we’re each looking for, I concluded that if Colleen were a guy, that’d
be the ballgame. Colleen seemed very pleased at the general consensus on this, then eyed the other women sitting in the circle
and announced that if she were a guy, she could make any of us her bitch. Comments
like this are why I love her.
Of more interest was the impending arrival of Camilla’s would-be boyfriend, who had so far displayed
all the signs of extreme sincerity in his stated desire to be with her, and who was now about to prove his devotion by subjecting
himself to two days of up-close scrutiny by her entire family and many of her friends during the Cape Experience. Oh, boy.
I could only wonder if he knew – if he really, really knew – what he
was getting himself into, but by then his plans had been laid and I couldn’t warn him. As it turns out, I shouldn’t
have worried. The Captain turned out to be a tall, pony-tailed banjo player who, aside from being extremely polite, was quietly
very funny and kept us rolling on the greens through the entire round at Pirates Cove. (“Captain” was a shortening
of his chosen pirate name; Colleen opted for Blind Yolanda.) In the evening, Camilla and the Captain played bluegrass in the
living room, and for a moment we were all nervous when it appeared the Captain may not have been able to play along with the
music Camilla had written – as Johanna put it, if they can’t jam together, what do they have?? – but it
turned out fine after a few minutes and I fell asleep to Camilla’s singing.
This year, we spent far more time on the beach than we ever had before. This was largely due to Jen and
Kelley’s need to occupy the children, who tended to go stir crazy at the house all day. Our first expedition took place
on Sunday, and since we weren’t positive what time the parking lot would fill, we left the house at 9:30 in the morning
and were delighted to discover vast stretches of empty sand upon our arrival at Skaket
Beach. As I paid the elderly parking lot attendant, I expressed my joy
at all the vacant spots and asked where everyone was on such a beautiful day. The man eyed me and opined that everyone was
“probably at CHURCH.” Properly shamed, I parked and unloaded. When
we returned the next day, I smiled at the lot attendant, who neglected to smile back. Apparently, the scarlet S still burned
on my swimsuit.
Despite our forays of the prior year, the beach still felt like new terrain to Will and Lucy. By the second
day, Lucy had discovered the joy of wading in the water and liked to have me hold her hands as she jumped up and down. By
the end of the week, we had a job keeping her from wandering away from us in the water – her confidence had grown enormously
over just a few days, and the problem went from getting her comfortable in the water to getting her out of it. (“Five
more minutes!” was her standard response to the announcement that we were leaving. She reminds me of the Ewe, who would
also live life in the water given a choice.) Will also made great strides. He began the week unwilling to take a step off
the beach matt – he HATES sand in his shoes, which is consistent with what seems like a stronger-than-average desire
for order and neatness in a two-year-old (even if he wasn’t physically a carbon copy, I’d know this was Kelley’s
son). On his second beach day, he walked across ten feet of dry sand to see Jen, proving again that motherhood is a powerful
thing, though he still curled up like a cat whenever Kelley lowered him anywhere near the water. By Wednesday, he was tentatively
sticking a foot into shallow puddles, and by the end of the week he was in water up to his waist as Kelley provided a supporting
hand. I think we were all proud of him.
The Cape gave us another perfect beach day for our last visit on Friday,
and our contingent again arrived by 10 a.m. in order to grab our favorite real estate. Around noon, Jen, Camilla, and I took
Lucy up to the snack stand to get lunch (this time ensuring we had clarity from Kelley regarding his onion ring needs before we went). As we stood waiting for the food we’d ordered, an orange-trunked man approached me and
asked if we were in line. I explained that we were waiting for our food, and outlined the order process, indicating the correct
window, and he thanked me in a foreign accent I couldn’t quite place before returning to his position standing behind
us. Where he remained. And did not order anything. And as I continued chatting with Jen, I watched him out of the corner of
my eye as he appeared to be paying a lot of attention to us. My food came up, and Orange Trunks moved away toward the beach.
Before leaving, I whispered to Jen to keep an eye on him. (As a side note, I don’t worry about strangers so much except
when Lucy is nearby. Lucy has turned into the most beautiful five-year-old ever – no kidding – and so when strangers
are lurking I find it creepy.) I headed to my beach chair, and as I passed Orange Trunks, he called out “see you, Linda.”
Fantastic. I kept going, and when I got to our blanket, I debated internally for a minute before telling Kelley there was
a strange guy hanging around who had taken the trouble to learn my name, and he was still up there where Lucy and Jen were
getting lunch. Kelley took zero time to debate internally, and went up to help Jen bring the food down while I sang the Little
Teapot song with Sir William the Loud.
After lunch, I picked my book up while the others went swimming. In a few minutes, I heard a voice to my
right asking for the time and turned to see Orange Trunks. After ascertaining the hour, he announced he wanted to marry me.
I informed him that that was a very bold statement, given that he had only just met me, and asked if he spent his days hanging
around the snack stand looking for women he wanted to meet. He in turn informed me that he was Brazilian, and in his culture
men are very up-front about what they want. He further informed me that he had seen me there two days ago with my friend’s
baby and thought I should have one of his, and he had been hanging around Skaket
Beach hoping I’d come back. And did I live in Boston? Because he did, and since he was going home that evening, he wanted to see me there.
(When I repeated the “I want to marry you” statement to Kelley during a swim later, he actually sputtered in the
water and told me I should’ve asked Orange Trunks if he gets a lot of action with that line. This is when it helps to
have a guy friend – they give you a realistic perspective.) Orange Trunks was visibly disappointed when I told him about
New Jersey, but informed me that he would be happy to come
down to see me. Seems he’s a professional runner, who moved to Boston eleven years ago,
and he hastened to add that he has his citizenship so he can leave and return to the U.S. at will. (How nice for him.) I declined to provide my phone number or last
name, so Orange Trunks gave me his Yahoo! address and told me he was looking forward to hearing from me. I asked him how many
other women he was looking forward to hearing from, and he told me none – because he was shy. I put my index fingers
over my eyes to prevent them from rolling. At this point, it would have been good to test his sincerity – something
along the lines of: “Fine – I want two children in the first four years, a summer house on Nantucket,
and I basically don’t want to work anymore – make it happen, and I’m in.” However, I opted for the
simpler “have a nice trip back to Boston,” and
he went back into the ocean, from which he kept looking back at me and waving.
Later, I joined my posse in the water and relayed the conversation. They were equal parts amused and appalled,
and helped me keep Orange Trunks on the avoidance radar for the remainder of our swim. It was like having a horsefly in the
bedroom when you’re trying to fall asleep – you just can’t relax because you always have to know where the
damn thing is. Eventually, none of us could see him anymore, so we concluded he had gone home. (Follow up note: After returning
to NJ, I used his Yahoo! email name to track him down and turned up a magazine article written about him in 2003, which included
a photo validating his identification. In the fifth paragraph, the writer mentions his wife. Shocking.)
We left the beach later than planned, stopped for ice cream, and headed back to the house, where I did
a speed-shower, threw my stuff into bags, and hugged everyone good-bye after swearing
to Uncle Kenny that I’d be out to visit him and Irene within a couple of weeks. As I was leaving, you could literally
see the fog rolling onto the Cape through the treetops, and a sense of loneliness struck me as I looked over at the passenger
seat, which had never before been empty as I drove off the Cape. Ah, New Jersey. (I just keep weighing the pros and cons of the move. Someday, I’m sure,
I will reach a conclusion and this topic will cease to take up brainshare.) The drive, which should have taken about five
hours, ended up taking nearly seven as a bad thunderstorm started coalescing just north of New Haven and was in full swing as I hit the Merritt
Parkway. Not only did this slow my driving, but the storm also apparently knocked over some trees
somewhere on the southern part of the Parkway, because the state cops had closed off the Merritt and were slowly routing us
all off the road via the exit that ostensibly would take us to Route 104. It was about 10:30 at this point, and as I sat parked
in traffic, Kelley called to assess my progress. When I explained my situation, he said to keep heading west and I would eventually
hit 684, which I could take south to 287. At the bottom of the exit ramp, all the traffic seemed to be going left, which felt
like east to me, so despite Kelley’s advice I took the lemming approach and went along. This was a mistake, both directionally
and tactically, since about a mile down the road there was another tree down and each vehicle then had to make a three-point
turn to reverse direction. And so, after skirting a small altercation wherein it appeared that a pickup truck driver and a
few motorcyclists were having a violent difference of opinion, I found myself driving on a winding, rainy, unmarked, pitch-black
back road in Connecticut for about half an hour, during which time I contemplated simply pulling over and building a new life
for myself in the Constitution State. Eventually, after making a turn that felt south and another that felt west, I saw signs
for 684 and mentally thanked God. As I crossed the Tappan Zee, windows down and Matthew Sweet
singing loudly about how he wanted me to be his girlfriend, I dialed Kelley and left him a message thanking him for his prize-winning
GPS impression.
Tomorrow, it’s back to work and the crisis du jour. I probably have hundreds of email messages, and
I already know I have a full day of meetings, so I won’t have a lot of time to sit around and reminisce about my vacation.
But at some point, when one of my horsefly bites starts to itch or I bump my sunburned shin against the desk, I’ll think
back fondly on all of it – I might even find magnificence in the mold of the dark and tiny shower stall.
