Slogging

The flight was a lot of fun, retrieved the duffel bag, followed the signs, got to the water taxi, hung out for three hours at a Dunkin' Donuts, worked on laptop, then got onto the 1 o'clock ferry for Provincetown.  This is happening while dragging three bags of equipment and fancies for the wedding of the century; all in all, weighing about as much as a four year old, 35 pounds.  I can do this.  Next time stop at AAA and get one of those wheeled things like every other sane person; nope, not me, make do with what you have and quit complaining.

The ferry ride was long and in rough seas, we rolled from trough to crest, nosediving into the waves, not too bad if I didn't try to read.  I sat with Germans, put my head against the window and dozed.  Now by the time we get there, it's 3 in the afternoon, and I've been traveling for seven hours; not the longest haul, but dragging around crap that women pack for six of them was wearing me down.  I messaged Scotty that I was there and started down the long wooden pier.

There are very large sea gulls here.  Our inland sea gulls would get their asses kicked by these birds; I thought I was looking at pelicans, but nope, gulls.  They scream in almost a human voice, and sound as if they are being murdered, which is disconcerting.  I jumped the first time one swooped over and cussed me out for not having any Doritos, which is the sea gull national food.  These things buzzed about like flying monkeys, looking to see if the crowd was secretly eating french fries and not sharing.

The weather is drizzly and cold from the blowing wind; I am wrestling the three bags and finally loop one strap across by chest and hitch up the other two on one shoulder so I can now clamp them onto my side.  Scott said it was two miles to the Inn, I could walk that, and besides, I think I see the place just where the shore curves in; a bit of a hike and it's cold, but I can do it.  Hup.

The wind is blowing and Provincetown has one of the charming aspects of New England in that there are often no sidewalks, and the shops and houses are right up to the road.  Certainly no room for two people to comfortably pass each other, especially if one of them is lugging a duffel, a loaded briefcase, and a large black case.  I pass the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner is to happen, The Lobster Pot.  Wow, I must be close, red neon lobsters, can't wait to see the inside, must be close.

Lots of little shops and galleries, lovely brick walks, crushed oyster shells and sand are what Provincetown is made of and as I slog by, I see that the tide is out and the giant seagulls are enjoying the local crab population.  Where the hell is this place?  Look up the address, 698 Commercial Street, and I am at 215.  Well, sometimes numbers go fast and the building I think it is looms ahead and thank goodness, for I am exhausted.

The sign out front faces the opposite direction and after I read the address, which is in the three hundreds, the moniker "The Ice House" doesn't surprise me.  I say several swears and what the heck did I pack in these bags?  Onward, and why haven't I heard from Scott?  I leave a voicemail.  A half hour has gone by, and it is another fifteen minutes before I get there.  I call again from a road since the sidewalks have completely disappeared and Route signs are appearing.  Snail Road.  Scott answers, and says oh yeah, Snail Road, look up, I'm waving at you.

I stagger into the parking lot and decelerate into his cuddly self; he asks, "Why didn't you call me?" You walked all the way, carrying this?  It would have been a long way without the luggage,"  The walk did me good, but brain said "no more, please". Checked in, got the room, and one of the best things about it is the concrete floor because tiny grains of sand from the beach are all over the place, like a cottage.  Tomorrow I am going to the shore just across the road, and hope to find more stuff to put into the luggage to drag about.  Wheels, you'd think I would realize that wheels have been invented.

The rehearsal dinner was fabulous, the family members that I met are warm and lovely, the sort of group that takes you in and installs you on the couch with a cold one and the dog sits with you.  Perhaps I shall write of the event, another passage of time, a golden coin spun from the straw of youth.

Morning, before six, a cold wind blowing and I hit the Continental Breakfast bar...it's not like the Muskegon one, but food isn't of interest right now; I want to get outside and trot up and down the beach.  I have Crocs on my feet since I don't want to load my sneakers with sand and figure if the tide is high, getting them wet is no problem.  The company used to advertise them as being able to be put through the dishwasher.  Ick.

A brisk walk along the road leads to a flooded stairway with a path through beach grass and immense New England granite.  Then into the soft sand which is like walking with anchors on your feet, nothing to push off with the ball of your foot, it just goes goosh.  Off I go, amid mounds, mounds, people, of dead brown seaweed and soft sand.  I have a plastic bag with me for washed-up treasures.

Now, those that know me and still love me, understand that I pick up the unusual, the dead, the bleached bone.  Back years ago, I saw a roadkill mostly decomposed buck by the side of a country road and yes, I got a beautiful spine that I bleached out at home.  The puzzle of bones fascinated me, how they fit and allowed curvature and strength; there was a rhythm to it, a descending line of calcium ending in the tiniest of phalanges for the flickering white tail.  My son has it, now; it's safe to come over.

Imagine the curiosity of finding a fish skull with a pointed snout and pointed ribs.  Carapaces from crabs, slipper and clam shells, a string of whelk egg cases and a few shark egg pods.  Broken, beat-up, and sort of still, um, let's say juicy.  I was in heaven.  Stuck my fingers into the ocean and tasted the salt, oh, ocean salt.  Wonder how much it is to buy a small house on the Cape, should talk to my friends and find out.  I'm not rinsing or cleaning anything until I get home.

People were up, walking their dogs.  Friendly dogs.  One very lovely beagle crossed with a tall something which caused black spotting on the torso and rust spotting on the legs with a German Shepherd face.  Pretty girl, who thought my leg was pretty also, when I was talking to her owners and not quite watching her.  She didn't mean what many people think that means, but it just doesn't look attractive and frankly, get the hell away from my leg.  Owners flushed and apologized, I did the Oh that's okay obeisance and mentally sent a warning to the dog's brain that the next time, there will be an accident, like me screaming bloody hell and accidentally launching you thirty yards with my foot.

Huffing with indignation only lasted for five feet, for there amid the piles of seaweed was an immense, washed up horseshoe crab.  Holy crow.  I love these things and took pictures of it; a couple walking by came over and also took pics asking, what is that thing?  Is it still alive?  Um, no, not alive or it would be wiggling legs, trying to get back to the water.  This one was dead as a doorbell.  I waited for them to leave before picking it up, but left it for several reasons: the shell is way too fragile, it was freshly dead and contained all the soft tissues, my bag wasn't large enough, and how in this green world would I explain it at airport security.  God knows how I'm gonna get that fish skeleton through.  If it were deader and more dried, I could have mailed it to myself.

Short science lecture: horseshoe crabs aren't true crabs, they're more related to spiders, but they have wonderful, copper-based blue blood that the medical community extracts to make a bacterial endotoxin.  Living fossils, these.  Declining.  Save an arthropod, today.

That was the highlight of the beach walk, and I scooted back to the hotel to see what was up with the rest of the company.  Today is the big day, and I am so honored to be a part of it.  Going out for another walk with friends to explore the town, will report findings later.  Ciao.

Those skinny sidewalks were packed with people sidling in and out of shops like fiddler crabs; I got a ride down with Damon and after a brief sojourn, went separate ways.  He told me of a sight that I would not want to miss at the library and gave instructions to take the elevator up to the mezzanine, and that when the elevator doors open, be prepared for the sight.  Wouldn't tell me what it was, sweet of him wanting me to enjoy the surprise, and it was indeed.  The library is a beautiful, stately building with charming book shelves topped by carved endpieces, and the tall, arched windows have a stunning view of the bay.  So much light pours in, and, it's quiet, the way libraries are supposed to be.

The elevator doors slid open, and before me was a half-size model of a wooden fishing vessel whose two masts soared through the ceiling through circular openings in the ceiling, and the prow jutted forward through a wall.  It was huge, rigged and almost 67 feet long, 12 wide.  The Rose Dorothea was originally 108.7 feet long with a rounded bow that made her faster than the other schooners, for she could sail closer to the wind.  A better angle, more force to push against the sails and you swoosh off ahead of the other fishing boats. It was built as a tribute to the fishermen of historical Provincetown.

I walked back the two miles, and it was a lot easier without draggling the luggage with me.  I now have a wedding to get to, and need time to get polished up; it will be a fun time, with a union between two loving people who will grow old together, I can feel it.  I am stuffing my pockets with tissues.

Good night all, it will be a night of stars and falling meteorites reflected in the saltwater of the bay. Sleep well.