Oily waves on a sunset beach; oysters and gin in the late afternoon; Sandy-wrecked beaches closed except for views and lusts; empty beach-scapes for devouring with your eyes; used book shops down vegetation saturated alleyways in 17th century whaling villages; clams and oysters and a little more gin; seagull and their meals on a temporary, soon to be returned to the sea impression; taffy in Provincetown.

The Cape has a mythology to it- this is unavoidable. It really is a dreamscape, a place where people go to leave or gain or be different or to be somebody they’re not. It’s full of transients, in a way. Most of it’s population is seasonal, not really present- they come and indulge in the open season (mid June thru September) and then depart. You get used to feeling put together unnaturally- I don’t really bond with people I encounter there. Being a Montanan with a Cape bungalow in desperate need of new electrical wiring is a rarity- most people are from New England or the TriState area and have few things to say about Montana except: “Oh yeah, wasn’t, uh, that one guy? Brad Pitt? In a movie about your place?” or “Oh yes! Horses! Mountains!”

Nonetheless, I fell more whole. I can wander the empty beach and dig my toes into the sand and look out and see far away peninsular reaches. I eat like a queen and sleep like the dead. I hear thunder and watch waves crash and feel connected in a way I miss.

Adieu, Cape, for now!