In Wellfleet, the post season doesn’t mean watching your team sputter out in the pennant race, completely obliterating all chances for a World Series, (“I can’t watch the Sox”, wrote Matt Tibbi in Rolling Stone and I quite agreed). 

No, post season begins after the Main Street flood of 20,000 people, in town for the annual Oysterfest, have receded off-Cape to their homes.  PJ’s, The Beachcomber and Laughin’ Lobster mounted their “See You in April” signs late Saturday night, the same block letters that greeted me when I drove across the Bourne Bridge last April. By Monday October 15th, only 25% of the restaurants in town remain open and 90% of the homes will remain empty until June 2013.

Months have passed since I left and returned to the Cape. Summer feels like ages ago, a whole other person ago, as if August were the division between the old and New Year. For most of the month, I was living on the Karissa, a '70s Chris Craft houseboat, motors removed, sharing less than 75 feet with a man I have been involved with on and off for the past three years. I’ve managed to tell no one except my sister, and, with more vagueness than necessary, my mother. I didn't stay on the phone longer than five minutes with anyone. 

That this sometimes on, most times off again relationship flickered on again should surprise no one. I have been nothing short of reckless in matters of the heart since 1997, when, on an ill-fated evening, I hosted a dinner party and met a rotund, balding Texan and traded my good sense with a bad habit I just can’t seem to quit, like smoking and the New York Times crossword. 

What can I say? Steak on the grill, corn on the cob and my favorite ice cream in the freezer easily bamboozle me.  Except for a few day trips here and there, I was anchored to the marina, baking homemade granola, blending up green smoothies, half-heartedly doing yoga on the dock and undoing the mind body spirit routine I had established in Wellfleet. When I finally pulled out my favorite bright tangerine orange cords, they were tight around the ass. That’s what this trip to the moon on gossamer wings does to you. Widens the load. Takes up valuable space.

Two weeks into August, one of the librarians called to inform me that “… someone has, well, they’ve torn down your sign for housing and crumpled it up.  If you want to send another, I’d be happy to post it.” My ‘fleetian friend Karen later tells me to brush it off as “Augustitis”, a condition born from overly crowded markets, beaches and restaurants combined with surly impatience for the bloat to be gone.  I’ve since observed, however, that living in a community reliant on such a large seasonal populace is that when everyone “other” finally does leave, it feels as if you’re empty of breath, are strangely bewildered with the absence of energy, and a bit angry too – somewhat like a sugar crash, a symptom I was quite familiar with, especially after the seduction by homemade salted caramel ice cream and coffee in bed.

During my lie-in on the Karissa, I negotiated my lease, returning mid-September enthused, signing up for Beekeeping classes, outlining the film studies workshop I am conducting at the library for middle and high-schoolers, helping my neighbors cover the garden with sea hay until the spring and working with my friend Peter to organize volunteers for the Modern House Trust, and looking forward to the Wellfleet Oysterfest, the last big party of the year. 

Ray, the first familiar face I saw picked me up off the ground and said, "So you're back? For good!?" I said yes, but it is unlikely I will be able to stay here, notwithstanding the winter.  (“Quiet” is the common adjective I get from everyone I ask about the dark season). Putting down roots is a challenge. The Cassick Valley cottage is secured through June 30^th until I join the “Wellfleet Shuffle”, due to the shortage of year round housing; unless you are lucky or well connected enough to find it.  For the rest of us, rent will double during the high season of July and August. Another setback is that these rentals are certain to be furnished by the AIM Thrift Store, the swap shop at the transfer station or IKEA,  making it difficult to decorate with things that allow you to call it “home”, or in my case, get out of storage.

This morning, I calculated that over the past five years I have spent, get ready for it, $15,000 on storage. Maybe a little less, maybe a little more, but that about sums it up. I hesitated before I multiplied five years times twelve months times the rental cost, recalling Brian’s advice as I was instructing his men on how I wanted the unit organized.  "You shouldn't be worrying about that.  You should be worrying about where you are going to be moving to next. And I would recommend that you find that place within a year.' "You're right.” I repeat this out loud a few more times, ingraining this knowledge into my psyche. I trusted Brian. He was a solid guy, had moved me twice already, from Silver Lake to Highland Park to Eagle Rock to Pasadena, the location of my first storage unit.

           

I’ve cross-referenced my ideal “life” list with Wellfleet, and it fulfills almost all of my requirements, (a community of intelligent, progressive, creative people, close to an airport, the ocean, volunteer opportunities, etc), except this one: gainful employment. 

The community is warm and welcoming, full of salty fishermen and artists. There are lots of gardeners, activists, writers, and painters.  It would be easy for me to have my own radio show, join a play reading group, get on the affordable housing committees, but I cannot even begin to think about rooting down here without buying a property and that is not feasible without a full time job, a rarity on the outermost Cape. And yes, I thought about filling out an application, but working the evening shift at the Mobile gas station is not something I want to do.

I’m also facing the hard reality that my dream of USC’s Graduate School program comes with an expensive price tag, no less than $40,000, of which I am ineligible for student aid, making it economically impractical for me to enroll without the guarantee of a job. In almost every state, open teaching positions are limited to Math, Science (even EXXON Mobil is promoting the president’s initiative) and Speech pathologists; which, strangely, I qualify for with my “Speech & Theatre” degree from Wagner College.

But I can’t reconcile working my way into the system by teaching ESL when the whole point of shifting gears mid - third career was to share the subjects I love to young minds taking flight into the world of post-high school.  So, I’ve joined the many who have banked their aspirations until a retirement wave of English and Theatre teachers begins.

At the end of this autumn, the trees fat with leaves quickly steeping to brown waiting for the right moment, the right gust of wind (apparently it wasn’t Sandy) to blow them all off at once, I've been told that I wander, but maybe I love too many places.  

A friend from California tells me “Come home, you’ve been gone too long.”

"It is confidence in our bodies, minds, and spirits that allows us to keep looking for new adventures, new directions to grow in, and new lessons to learn—which is what life is all about." —Oprah Winfrey

The Summer Sessions

At 5 Second Walk, a clam shell announces, “A Day at the Beach is the Best Day Ever” in blue magic marker. I couldn’t agree more.  I remember the sentiment as I tumble to the Atlantic, where I rejoice in the waves…. the waves the waves the waves as they crash and retreat. I like my towels to be orange and red, a reflection of the heat and joy of beaches and summer. The ocean is a perfect Sea Green from the Crayola color wheel.  Swimmers jockey for position between a dozen men casting fishing poles and ogling girls clad in bikinis, but it’s an older woman in a colorful kurta who reels in dinner, a blue fish she smartly totes off for cleaning.

Next to where we have laid our spread, a group of former Delta Sig sisters reminisce about their college day - their kids run amok attempting to force a kite to take flight.  “The smell of the ocean”, our neighbors comment “... so my favorite thing.”  I write this down this bit of eavesdropping.

It’s a great excuse to be lazy and while away an afternoon on soft sand, two months worth of New Yorkers and Oprah's latest issue as inspiration for September, quickly approaching.  And the theme of this issue is appropriate.  It is time for a makeover; although I’m unclear on my start date for this makeover, this New Me.   It’s something I contemplate over the next two days, lounging on my triple wide spread of towels, umbrellas, books, lotions and coolers of frozen fruit and ice cubes.

One of our houseguests left on the 5:20 ferry Saturday. The rain hadn’t settled in yet, but the wooden walkway was slick and our flip-flops squeaked and squawked as we made our way to the ferry landing marked by a single lamppost, oddly reminiscent of the wardrobe leading to Narnia.  We wanted to see her off, across the short bay to the LIRR & Penn Station where she would train it to 2nd & 4th readying herself for a morning flight across the country to LA.

A new beginning. A whole new chapter.  I took that journey myself once – and at her age  - from the same side of town East Side to the same side of town West Side.  I’m excited for her, but sad for me. Goodbye this time wasn’t a “see you next week”; it was goodbye good luck to an uncertain path and a sparkling future. I’m half jealous. 

Remnants of the hurricane season hit us early Sunday morning, raining all day and leaving Monday a windy mildly warm and tempestuous day.  An olive skinned beauty, say 15 or 16, stands with her left hand on her cell and her right cupping her cheek vacantly looking out from the Grill Counter, normally full on sunny days, yet eerily empty, devoid of people and their pleasure crafts.  Whether boaters left last night in the rain or early this morning, choppy waters in the closed quarters of the marina is probably not an ideal spot. The beach near the casino and ferry landing is full of bathers and two lifeguards watch over the low tide and rolling waves. Grey skies or not, people continue in their doggedness about enjoying their vacation time. 

I can’t believe I waited until mid afternoon to come out to the beach. Being in the darkness makes one lazy, sloth like. We need some form of light to awaken our souls. Outside, even in this bright yet cloudy day I feel better, less stuck in the mud. The ocean has turned from a sea glass green to soup – a steely pea green mixture with five-foot waves that tempt the surfers.  Five tweens hold hands and face the white caps. Kids rush the foamy parts of the waves, determined on their first day of a family vacation not to let the grey skies ruin their fun of the week before school starts.  Parents are keeping close watch, bundled up and hunkered down against the wind. The sun brightly and bravely tries to break the barrier of clouds, but from its position now, I can see it has resigned to settling in until tomorrow.

Idleness certainly does not slow down time’s passages.  For me it acts as lubricant, speeding up the last year.   Davis Park, 2nd Walk, 2009 feels like two months ago. How did we get to here so quickly? A week is just not enough time to have a proper summer vacation. By the fourth day, you’re counting backwards, retracing steps trying to slow down the next few days that are anything but lingering.  I think of O, and the September issue and my list… the list that never ends with questions like: What I am doing? Where am I going to live? What is my ideal life? What makes me tick? Why do I love sugar? I need to more yoga, start up guitar lessons again, Call that Dan Smith, memorize those uke songs, finish sweaters I’ve started, write postcards, discard old things and unused possessions, go to the post office by the lamppost, find a new apartment, tap into my brain, organize my thoughts, finish planning my trips, go the library, call my mother, call my sister, call my brothers, birthday cards and baby gifts, return calls, so much to remember, so much to do and in the midst of this all, the storm the storm and this dark cabin.

The sky is a milk glass with a light bulb shining through and I don’t want to leave just yet. It doesn’t seem right that it should be storming and 70 degrees in the dog days of summer.

I am on the beach with the kids… the kids and dogs who don’t mind the weather. They are just as happy to jump right in the surf no matter what the skies portend.  Sgt. Pepper loves the beach, loves the sand, loves above all chasing the sand pipers. They mock him, flying wide circumferences over the beach dunes and back across the beach to the sea trying to get him into the water.  I swear we walked five miles and Pep has run about ten retracing his steps again and again in his pursuit.  And the next day, he’s ready to do it again.

I want more. I want an entire summer. I will settle for just one more sunny day at the beach - that is all I want.

We’ve decided we will pack up and catch the ferry about twelve hours earlier than our planned departure. All of the equipment I carried for my lazy days at the beach - magazines, journals, lotion and SPF 15 Chap Stick, seems wasted.  No matter how many hot days there are to come, summer is over for me. It ended the day the rain came, leaving it soggy.  It has been melancholy for other reasons as well. I think I crave the endless summer – the coast that I recently left. There is nothing sadder than finding oneself under twisted oaks in the dark, dark shade while outside it pours relentlessly and the mosquitoes find refuge inside your dim cabin.

We get back to our little cabin; the rain turning swiftly on us, a reminder of the mercurial seasons here and this realization hurts me personally. I used to rejoice in the advent of autumn.  New cords, new desks, brown paper bag book covers, crisp air, but now it only makes me feel sad and helpless. I can’t stop the wheel from turning and soon it will be autumn for sure and for me, that means a new home as of yet to be determined, and an adventure of my own to not one but two foreign lands and hopefully a new path and purpose. I suppose this is a make over of sorts.

Cabin cleaned and bags by the screened porch, we take that last beach walk before heading back to the city.  As if on cue, the sky has revealed a Tiffany blue gift, a hot orange sun– a new day. It is so gorgeous, so perfect that the mosquitoes have even taken a break.

To the north, yes, you can see exactly where the wind has pushed the clouds away from Fire Island, big cumulous clouds gather, bunching up like mounds of whipped cream. The ocean sparkles with the sun.  Though not returned to its glassy green, gentle waves roll in, lolling swimmers to arise and get wet.  A few more days of summer, it beckons, just a few days, whispering with the gentle wind, provoking us to take in this day and the next to come.

On the east coast, this is something to savor, a warm memory to return when the real cold comes on and the days turn bitter, short and the sky closes up once again but with snow.  It is the tokens we take with us, shells and bits of broken worn down glass that fill empty bottles and jars later made into lamps, the bits of sand not shaken out of tote bags and socks that find us, that will remind us to seek out these days.

The sounds of the surf are loud and vibrant, and there is no need for talk or thinking.  Just nothingness and the sense that everything is as it should be.