"I am grateful for everything in my life, knowing all is in perfect, divine order."

Deepak Chopra's Centering Thought of the Day my last morning in Wellfleet was a good swap for what I was feeling, which was regret. So it was gratitude I thought about during my morning walk on Lecount Hollow, the beach I've come to call mine, before I had to drive to New York in a few hours.

Rolling waves were falling against a soft, hazy backdrop, breaking between 12  - 15 seconds apart before finding the shore.   The glassy water made it difficult to distinguish seals from the surfers bobbing in their gleaming black wetsuits.  I felt bad that Sgt. Pepper wouldn’t be dodging the Park Rangers and sea gulls for who knew how long.  

I do have a lot to be grateful for. In fact, I would wager to say “a lot” is an understatement.  In the last four months, I’ve unearthed a goldmine of knowledge, about the future I want to create, what makes me happy and what it means to detach with grace. 

A few things that came to mind while I walked towards the Whitecrest embankment. 

1. The “Fact of the Day” scribbled on the dry erase board by the four teenagers who made up our squad of Life Guards.  Along with water temperature, shark sightings, and the levels of mung were quips like: "100 % of the people who don't smoke will die" or “Joe likes popsicles more than ice cream sandwiches”. They never ceased to make me smile.

2. Rachel, the counter girl at Sweet and Savory Escapes who would wave and smile when I walked through the door, scooping a perfect ice cream cone for me, pretty much on a daily basis since Tracy and I first went there in May. I am a creature of habit, keeping my selections to Salted Caramel, Coffee, Deep Chocolate and Pomegranate Chocolate Chip. Sugar cone, of course.

3. Susanne at The Farm Gallery, for always remembering that I love Paul Scarbo Frawley's irreverent art and Asya Palatova's vocabulary teacups with words like “Ontology” and “Tango” delicately glazed in pastels.

Peter Scarbo Frawley, Corona typewriter on paper, 1970

4. Petra and Rolf at Eastham’s GLOW Yoga. They got me through the dark days of spring and into Bikram (a tiny bit). Special shout out to Rolf, who made me fall over with laughter during class when he, in tree pose, told us with a beatific smile, "We're all going to die, right, so let’s try to find the balance while we're here".

5. The Wellfleet librarians who always held recommendations for me, and unbeknownst to them, helped me realize a long ago New Year’s resolution to borrow instead of buying books.

6. Genevieve, of Truro Yoga, a student of one of my favorite teachers, Shiva Rae, who leads a 90 minute+ classes which always began and ended with her infectious giggle and a sense that you were exactly where you needed to be.

7. The Mermaid at the Mermaid Grange, artist Julia Salinger, who, despite the stoic New England attitude surrounding her, piles up her silver hair and studs it with starfish and covers her arms and shoulders with body glitter. I always say one should sparkle!

At the Weidlinger House

8. Peter the architect’s staid sideman humor, original word jokes, and the world of modern architecture I never would have known existed. Hidden among overgrown pine trees and tucked away off the dirt roads on National Park lands are dozens of disused and neglected summer homes designed and once inhabited by Paul Weidlinger,  Jack Hall and many others.  I also appreciate that he left New York City for a quieter life, and because of his love for modernists, (“They were hopeful”), started the Cape Cod Modern House Trust, saving important architecture from falling away to the elements. Also by being an example of blending his career with two things he genuinely enjoyed.

9. Chatting with Joe McCaffery of Narrowland Pottery and the painter Paul Sugg  about the "Born Here/Wash Ashore" histories, and their penchant for soft serve cones despite their gruff, salty exteriors. 

10. Polly Burnell's sunny, positive attitude about everything, (“I think I’m a Buddhist” she confided in me, while at the same time eyeing a trio of aircraft approaching and finishing with “God, I hope those aren’t UFOs”.) A sister in Rickie Lee fandom.

11. The fried scallop roll (hold the roll) recommendation from the sullen counter girls at P.J’s. Like Savory’s ice cream, it became a staple for me. 

12. The plumpest, juiciest oysters on the half shell as well as the staggering amount of butter Chef Eric Jansen of Truro’s Blackfish uses on his bone-in rib eye entree. 

13. My neighbors Trisha and Richard, who made me feel so welcome, allowed me a spot in their garden, shared their harvest over long lunches that always began with a cup of hot coffee and warm milk and who are living the life I want when I am a septuagenarian, spending two months in Kauai during the winters, eating from their garden, creating art and being happy souls.

14. The light. The light. The light. 

Peter shared with me a ritual he created with his nieces to commemorate their summer vacation. The second to last day, everyone would write down what they loved and what they could have lived without, and then burning the folded slips of paper in a big beach bonfire. I have not said good-bye to the ocean, to the bay, to the librarians, or anyone, preferring to slip out of town quickly and quietly. 

I tear up thinking about my daily routine there. The lingering winter I witnessed blossoming into spring and the scents that it brought- lilac for May, peonies in June and roses heralding the quick arrival of a heated summer in July.

The traffic was beginning to come to a standstill where U.S. Route 6 narrows into two lanes, a cheerless reminder that while everyone is arriving for their vacation, I am leaving.  It gives a strange sensation, like I am going in the wrong direction.

The people I’ve come to know, Trisha, Polly, Joe, Paul and others, assured me that I will be back, giving quick hugs or pats on the shoulder with "You're part of Wellfleet now". 

That seems certain. 

Anticipation...

The parking lot at Ballston Beach is wide open but for one truck.  Sand spills out onto the pavement. Tiny laminated signs are stapled to fencing, poking up through the dunes, pleading with walkers to protect the fragile grass and monarch butterflies.

The timpani of the ocean on the other side quickens my pace over the windswept path to the great horizon, outlined by the changing turbulent color of the sea.  It is a vast and amazing site that never ceases to stun me with gratitude. 

I have not been on this beach since I was a young teenager. We loved the surf here, higher than any we had ever jumped around in before, toes grazing the ocean floor while the swell carried you high and deposited you three feet from your spot, pre-boogie board style.

The water remained about a foot high during the low tides, and we would lie down on your belly closer to shore, leaning on elbows or crawl out, catching the waves as they rumbled in, rolling down through the dips in the ocean floor every six feet or so, causing a diminishing effect before breaking up entirely on the shore line. 

The serenity of the solitary shore was a siren’s call to which the ocean responded moodily.  High tide was four hours away, but waves were tumbling in with the tide, faster and more ferocious than on other parts of the National Seashore.  This is what made Ballston one of our favorites, the unpredictable Mother Nature, the reason our parents warned us before going into the water “Respect the ocean… and watch the undertow”.

It was on this beach that the ancestors of these waves carried my brother Phil away.  He was just eight years old that June, the youngest in the crowd of children packed into the Volvo.  When we finally heard my sister say, “Where’s Phil?” my friend stood up from our little tidal pool, shaded her eyes and pointed out towards the sun.  His head was bobbing out there. Way, way out there. We cupped our hands together and yelled his name, but I don’t think he would have been able to hear us.

My older brother Frank and his friend Paul orchestrated a rescue, first running in the water as fast as they could and then hurling themselves into the swells, badly butterflying their way towards Phil. I think Mark Spitz was still quite popular then, as was his signature stroke.

It was low tide after all, but getting past that first round of waves was a heroic feat. After that, the three of them walked in to shore where we stood in a line watching. Our family friend, aptly named BIG JIM for his enormous size, puffed on his Newport 100s nervously and shouted at all of us. No one was exempt.   Big Jim & Mary were old family friends visiting us from Harrisburg, PA.  I don’t know how Jim drew the short straw, but he was here, looking after all of us on his own. We were nine children total, ranging in age from 8 to 16. 

For his own four, it was their first time ever to the ocean. By the time Frank, Paul and Phil hit beach, Jim shouted, “Don’t you ever do that again! Ever!” his voice boomed out, and he practically hurled us toward the car. Afternoon over.

That night, the four adults stood admonishing us, Jim with the threat of his belt, stomping up and down the stairs to show us just how upset he was. "I’m going to get the belt if that EVER happens again". At some point, my mother and Mary started laughing, covered their mouths, and slunk into the kitchen, leaving us kids crowded on the beaten up couch with my father and Jim pointing fingers, sweating and threatening “The Belt”.

At breakfast the next day, my mother sternly said to anyone who was in listening distance, “You will not take your eyes off of your father or Big Jim. You will not go out over your waist. You will hold on to your younger brother’s hand”.

But despite these explicit instructions and the threat of Jim’s enormous belt, Philip was swept out again.  That was the last time we came to Ballston… ever. 

I'm trying to remember where exactly we were, where the blanket and cooler of Schlitz was laid out, but it was over thirty years ago, and I cannot recall the spot. I only remember seeing Phil's head and his little hand waving at us, off on his seaward adventure.

There is no treasure to be found today, with the exception of a broken piece of a brown Labatt’s bottle and the shell of a Mylar balloon. The glass I toss back into the ocean. It is not soft and sanded down enough for a proper sea glass find. There, by the balloon trapped in the sand, small footprints lead off the beach, towards the high house on the northern side of the parking lot. A small voice is tossed down by the breeze as if to match the prints.

The beach is almost naked. No footprints save the child’s, no rocks, stones or shells either, just soft warm sand and high cliffs sheltering nesting plovers who quickly fly back and forth over the water, darting into invisible habitats. 

On the highest cliff, men are taking off the shutters of a house facing the southeast. It is the last week of April, and people are starting to open their houses for the summer. Restaurants, hotels, cabins, campgrounds and shops are all prepping for May 1st, with new coats of paint and annuals spilling out of wine cask planters. 

May, I believe, marks the beginning of the season. The temperature has dropped again to 50 degrees, but the sun belies the cold front, and the light has changed accordingly to an early summer sky, with a twilight stretching out past the eight o’clock hour. 

The depressions in the beach had changed during our walk, and natural berms were beginning to catch the tail end of the white foam before it stripped back to the sea.  The clouds were like a cartoon train has puffed them out.   You're always on a curve on the ocean side of Cape Cod, there is a mystery around the corner, and each beach is different, has it's own personality.