April's End * Wellfleet, MA

  

I have been let in to a secret club, witnessing this old whaling town unfold itself and embrace the divinity in a season's change. The weather is too terribly romantic. Smoking chimneys keep the chill at bay, houses' driftwood gray blend into the overcast skies with bright colored tulips as a striking contrast.  These are the kind of days when I would skip high school, driving out to the ocean just to say hello.

For most of April, Route 6 has been devoid of traffic. Signs on old roadside motels sport large V A C A N T letters, although The Wellfleet Motel distinguishes itself with a “Squeaky Clean” promise on its sign.

Lecount Hollow Beach

I want to revisit all of the places I discovered last year and see how they differ in the off-season.  Following Main to Commercial Street and out to Mayo Beach, all the galleries, the fish markets, Emack & Bolio's Ice Cream; almost everything is shuttered for the season with hand printed signs cheerfully sporting either “See You Next Summer!” or “Opening After April 20th".  About ten vendors brave the elements at the famous weekend flea market hosted in the Wellfleet Drive-In's parking lot looking at present, like an over sized garage sale.

By the town pier, the winter wind has toppled the “E” from the “Pearl” Bistro sign atop the roof.  Fishermen are at work. I can see their trucks parked on the sandy bottom of the marsh as I cross the Herring River bridge.  They are out with the tide, harvesting, dragging traps and buckets behind them.  

The briny smell of seaweed is so strong that when I open my mouth, the coats the top layer of my tongue.  Pep and I are walking around an inlet called The Gut towards Great Island Beach, but it is the smell a rotting carcass of a dolphin that makes my eyes smart as we make our way over the path ofe tumbled reeds towards the sound of the ocean.The skin is blackened as if been burned by the sun.  Congealed blood creeps along the edges of the exposed rib cage.  The tail is gone, a bony stump remains. It doesn’t make sense to me that this dolphin should be so far away from the ocean, alone, caught in the marshy low tide and not able to get out. One of the shopkeepers told me that 180 dolphins beached themselves this winter, and 120 died; cause unknown.

Two hawks have been hovering in concentric circles around Sgt P. With those ears and the way he bounces along, I’m sure he looks just like a bunny just in time for Easter. I wave my arms and yell, “SHOO! SHOO!”, but that tactic fails. They continue to glide in circles above us.  The winter beach is seagull turf and when we reach the dunes, the hawks float off in the distance towards the sanctum of the pine trees, past the big empty house facing Provincetown. The windows have not been boarded up like most residences. The house has been left exposed and uncloaked, free for anyone to peek inside.

The tide is low, but the waves are moody, and don't offer the same stretches of sandbars that the longs days of summer bring with it. The late April waves have thrown up big rocks and broken shells and rough sand out of the depths. I read today that a boy in Oregon found a soccer ball belonging to another little boy in Japan. I have always had that childhood fantasy - finding that message in a bottle, a stranger to connect with across the sea, like the transatlantic telegraph cable that lies between the United States and Europe.

I take the boardwalk back, avoiding the death.  The hawks return their steady spirograph flight plan, snaking their way towards us.

The Wellfleet Market closes at 4:00 PM until May 1st, and I make it just in time for the manager to let me in, but she quickly locks the door after me repeating, "We close at 4!”   You can tell by the organic aisle, the stocked books fresh off The New York Times bestseller list, and the variety of magazines, that this town has a liberal majority. Whenever I see multiple cork boards in towns advertising drum circles, free yoga and lectures, I expect to hear Pete Seeger singing for peace at the traffic light.

Past the market and next to the Lighthouse Grill is the Spirits Shoppe & Package Store. There are white plastic chairs lined up four and four on each side of the doorway. Men of all ages are shooting the breeze. People wave from cars and say hello.  One man on the far end holds a folded paper and pencil in hand. As I cross the street to the church parking lot with my tomatoes, I hear a boy behind me shout from his car "Hey, you need help with the puzzle?"

At the end of the week, the temperature rises to 80 degrees. The earth smells like it is composting itself, cracking open the acorns and heating up the late spring bulbs. Surfers have taken off their wetsuits. With this change in weather comes glorious sunsets.

We went to the Great Island Beach about 7:15 tonight, just as the tide was coming in and twilight was leaving the sky a pale sea glass blue, a color that is one of the rarest to find. Pink bottomed clouds stretch out across the horizon. “Red sky at night, Sailor’s delight…” I think to myself.    At the big house, the sun's descent is firing off the panes of glass as if the entire place is about to go up in flames.