Escape Velocity: A Cape Cod Getaway in a Heatwave

Good morning from the furnace that is New England. Today, my wife and I are officially off the grid—well, off-call and off-duty, which in our world is the closest approximation. Sadie shut down her ICU command center, and I left my trauma pager on the nightstand like a broken relic of war. No patients. No staff meetings. No rapid-fire pages about “abdominal pain, unsure if trauma.” Just us, the road, and the promise of sea breeze.   And thank God for it—because outside, it’s apocalyptic. The kind of heat where the air feels personal. Vindictive. A thick, swampy curtain of humidity with a heat index flirting with 110. If air had fingers, this would be the kind that grabs you by the collar and says, “You ain’t built for this, son.”   So we did what any rational couple with too much formal education and a shared tendency toward heat-induced irritability would do:We packed up the black 1982 Porsche 911SC—our loud, moody little time machine—and pointed it east, toward the arm of Massachusetts, out where the sand and the surf don’t give a damn about your workload or how many bronchs you’ve done this week.   Before leaving, we turned our house into a dark little Arctic tomb. Every shade was drawn tight. Blinds closed. Lights off. The central air set to 74—not too cool, because we’ve learned she’ll throw a tantrum if she feels overworked, and the last thing we need is to return to a heat-stricken power outage. The goal: keep the house in suspended animation until our return.   Sadie packed light—just a linen tote, a towel, a new book she picked up called The Free Market Existentialist (because even her beach reads are existential), and her straw sunhat that makes her look like a European heiress with excellent opinions on rosé. I threw on my aviators, a black T-shirt I probably shouldn’t wear in this heat, and shorts that I tell myself still fit like they did in 2010.   We rolled the Porsche out of the garage like a fighter jet onto the tarmac. She sputtered at first, like she wasn’t thrilled about working today either, but after a minute, she warmed up—metallic, ancient, and ready to purr down the highway. Windows down (because A/C wasn’t part of the conversation in 1982), engine growling behind us, the world passed in a blur of asphalt and mirages.   The highway gave way to Route 6, and we carved our way through Cape traffic like surgeons in a rush—only today, we weren’t saving lives. Just chasing salt air.   Our destination? Herring Cove Beach, nestled on the lip of Provincetown, where the Atlantic meets the sky with no pretense. It’s a place that feels like the end of the world in the best way—windswept, defiant, and oddly quiet, even when packed with people. We pulled in late morning, laid our towels near the dunes, and surrendered to the rhythm of the waves and gulls squabbling overhead.   Sadie, of course, looked criminally good in her sundress before changing into her suit—a navy one-piece with gold straps that made heads turn. I read exactly one paragraph of my book before falling asleep with sand on my knees and salt in my beard. She woke me up by dropping a wet shell on my chest and saying, “It’s alive.” It wasn’t, but she gets a kick out of testing my reflexes even on vacation.   Lunch was lobster rolls at a shack by the water—cash-only, with a hand-painted sign and one guy behind the counter who looked like he’s been working there since the Clinton administration. We each had one roll, shared a bag of Cape Cod chips, and downed two ice-cold cans of Polar Orange Dry like they were sacred offerings.   Later this afternoon, we’ll stroll through P-Town’s narrow streets, dodge tourists with oversized cameras, and maybe pop into a gallery or two. If Sadie has her way, we’ll buy something handmade and impractical that will wind up hanging near the staircase at home, and I’ll learn to love it by October.   Dinner will likely be oysters, swordfish, something with lemon and thyme and served on chipped ceramic. Maybe we’ll linger long enough for dessert. Maybe we’ll order a bottle of white. Maybe we’ll even hold hands under the table like we’re twenty-five again. Depends on how tired we are.   We’ll head back tonight, sunburned and sandy and tired in that rare, earned way. The Porsche will groan on startup like an old dog rising from a nap, and we’ll chase the tail lights home, the sky turning bruise-purple behind us, the heat finally giving up its siege.   And when we get home? The house will still be dark and cool and quiet. And for once, so will we.   —StephenDriver. Husband. Sunburned but spiritually recalibrated.