A Cape Cod Journey
How did we go from blue popsicles to retirement accounts?
I’m sitting at an outdoor patio table, watching my adult sons and husband set up instruments on a small Cape Cod dock. The Bass River flows past, alive with a Fourth of July parade of sailboats, speedboats, dinghies, fishing vessels, cabin cruisers, and pontoons heading out to the Atlantic. People are laughing and celebrating, drinks in hand.
The air is salty and sweet with the occasional whiff of gasoline. I hear the cry of seagulls and swimmers splashing nearby.
I watch my family and feel a wave of nostalgia. We’ve been coming to this same weathered, two-story home in South Yarmouth since the boys were little. I remember watching them muster up their courage to jump into the river, off that same pier, their youthful faces filled with steely determination.
There were sand crabs in pails, water wings, blue popsicles, and inflatable green crocodiles. On rainy days, we (and it seems, every other vacationing family) sought refuge in summer blockbusters at the local theater.
Sentimental car rides were taken past my grandmother’s former beachfront motel in South Yarmouth, once painted bubble-gum pink, where my parents met in 1954. In those days, Dad drove a blue convertible and one afternoon came upon a middle-aged woman whose car had a flat tire. After he helped her, she asked if he’d like to meet her daughter. He said, “Okay,” and was later introduced to a fetching 20-year-old brunette. They married three months later.
Over the years, our kids did what I did on the Cape as a kid—swam in the bay, went fishing off the jetty, and explored the colorful streets of Provincetown. My father would throw us into the ocean, my brother and sister and I coming up for air laughing and squealing for more. With our mother, we’d go searching for shells and those tiny crabs that liked to burrow under the wet sand.
Today, I look around and see echoes of our younger selves and earlier generations everywhere. Next door, on the river, is my grandmother’s windmill cottage where Randy and I spent our honeymoon.
From the dock, my sons and their dad launch into, “American Girl” by Tom Petty and then “This Land is Your Land.” There’s scattered applause from some of the boats as they putter past. I sit there and can’t believe they’re doing this already. We’ve just arrived after a grueling four-hour drive from Connecticut. Still, I understand the excitement. At heart, they’re musicians. My boys caught the music bug from their father. Randy, now retired, transitioned from retired corporate executive to bass player, featured in several bands. To my delight, my husband and sons have formed a musical trio.
After “This Land is Your Land” they play a rollicking “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash. Several boats anchor nearby to enjoy the performance.
Like any impromptu group of Americans these days, I’m willing to bet many of these boaters don’t share the same political views (I can tell by the occasional Trump flag). Yet at that moment, none of it seems to matter. Judging by the smiles, applause, and tooting horns, the guys on the dock are a hit. In that instant, we’re all human, enjoying a beautiful summer day.
As they continue with “Crocodile Rock,” “Dancing in the Moonlight” and “I Want You Back” by The Jackson Five, I sit there, transfixed. What is it about music that touches our souls so deeply? Notes, melody, and rhythm can ignite laughter, tears, and joy, like a magical balm.
Vessels continue to chug and glide by. Some boaters smile and wave. Others whoop and sing, even dance, to the music. Still others, gaze ahead with no response, staring out at the ocean beyond.
After an hour of playing, traffic thins, and the guys pack up their gear. I feel a swell of pride as they carry their instruments into the house. In their own way, they gave themselves, and others, happiness.
“Great job,” I say, and my sons smile. I wonder if they’ll share these memories with future grandchildren someday.
That night, we enjoy our usual feast of fried scallops and clams around the patio table. The water is quiet now, reclaimed by the ducks and geese. An occasional boat chugs past. Dusk softens the sky to gentle pinks and blues, against the bright green of a nearby marsh. If there’s a more peaceful scene, I’ve yet to see it.
After dinner, the guys bring out acoustic guitars and sing softly as night falls. I can’t help but feeling blessed in these moments. Life is good. I try to hold onto each memory, even though I know it’s impossible.
Over the next week, our family revisits the traditional Cape Cod spots of years past, like touchstones. Everyday Randy and the guys go swimming in the river, but I always hold off, finding the water too cold. Instead, I sit on the edge of the dock and watch them enjoy themselves. Sometimes a pair of swans glide by. The occasional fishing boat hauls along, carrying its daily catch.
Every now and then, the Harbor Patrol speeds past, with flashing lights and siren, like a police car. Boats hurry to get out of its way. I say a silent prayer for whoever might be in trouble, a reminder of how fragile this existence is, how fast it can be taken away.
Our family mostly gets along, but occasional skirmishes break out. “Who drank all my herbal iced tea?” I ask one morning, holding up an empty pitcher. My oldest, Patrick, looks sheepish and gives a shrug. “Who knew? That stuff actually tastes good.”
I crave quiet time to do my writing, but in the evening, the one television in the living room is constantly blaring, as it’s become our common area. I find myself missing our Yorkie, Libby, and am apparently driving everyone crazy.
“Can we stop with the Libby stories, Mom?” Paul asks over dinner one night. “You’ll see her in two days. Chill.”
“How can you not miss her adorable yips?” I ask the three. They roll their eyes.
Randy, ever the musician, has music going on his speakers incessantly. “Do you have to play outside all the time?” I ask, watching him sit in the sun, after a swim. “Can’t we enjoy the sound of nature?”
My dark-haired husband looks aghast. “How can you not want to hear music? I can’t imagine.”
I keep my mouth shut...for the most part. Especially since I know they’re getting weary of my compulsive cleaning. Everything seems magnified and frantic in these closer quarters. And yet under the thrum of these mini feuds lies a hum of contentment for me. We’re lucky and I know that.
The last morning, before we leave, I perform my annual ritual. I walk to the dock and say goodbye to the river. Over the years, this waterway has been a silent witness to my family’s life—from young adults with tots, to middle-aged parents of teenagers, and now retirees with grown sons serenading boaters. Unlike the old days when we stayed together, now our sons return to independent lives—jobs, friends, and school. Instead of packing inflatable rafts, bags of toys, and snacks for the ride home, we stow suitcases and duffel bags. We’re now four adults.
Standing there, I realize the best part of the river is that it doesn’t care who is president or what’s happening in our world. It doesn’t care that we’re all getting older, and life is slipping away too fast. No matter what turmoil unfolds in the human realm, the water keeps flowing, steady but indifferent. Countless generations have come and gone on these shores—from my family too. We’re just one more.
For some reason, I find that soothing.
“Mom! We’re leaving!” I hear from the driveway. I take one last look. Above me, a seagull swoops and cries. I stop a moment and watch it fly away.
Does your family have a favorite vacation spot? Comments are always welcome and if you liked this, please pass it along! Thank you.