Heatwave, Horsepower, and Herring Cove: A Cape Cod Love Story

There are hot days, and then there are get-in-the-car-and-drive-until-you-see-ocean days. Yesterday was the latter.   The heat index hit 110—yes, one hundred and ten—and Rhode Island turned into something between a Bikram yoga studio and Dante’s Fourth Circle. The air was syrup. Dogs were lying belly-up in kiddie pools. The cicadas sounded drunk. It was not the kind of day to mow the lawn or reorganize the garage. It was a day to flee.   So flee we did.   We packed the 1982 Porsche 911SC, black and temperamental like a tuxedoed jazz musician with a chip on his shoulder, and pointed her east toward Cape Cod. No radio. No A/C. Just the engine snarling behind us like a caffeinated Doberman and the wind clawing at our arms through the windows.   Sadie wore a gauzy white sundress that looked like it belonged in a Fellini film. Her hair was up, sunglasses on, exuding the casual, lethal beauty of someone who can successfully intubate a patient in a moving ambulance but still critique the waiter’s wine suggestion with the precision of a French sommelier. Me? I wore shorts that have been with me since med school and a shirt that should have been retired in 2016. But it was our day—and we were headed to the Cape.   Herring Cove Beach greeted us with its usual charm: wide sky, dunes like sleeping lions, and an Atlantic that seemed almost merciful in its temperature. We staked our claim near the shore—two towels, one umbrella, a small cooler with chilled San Pellegrino and the occasional contraband lime White Claw.   The beach was populated, but not overrun. Some couples. Some solo sun-seekers. One old man playing Sinatra from a Bluetooth speaker tucked inside his cooler, which I respected deeply. Sadie dove into the water with that feral joy she only shows when she’s away from responsibility and standing knee-deep in surf. I followed, pretending the sand wasn’t burning the skin off my feet. We floated. We dozed. We read. We didn’t speak much. That’s how you know you’re with the right person—when silence doesn’t need to be filled.   By late afternoon, our hunger could no longer be ignored, and we made our way—sun-dazed and salt-smeared—into Provincetown proper, where the heat had cracked the pavement and the shops smelled faintly of incense, sunscreen, and overpriced artisan soap.   Jimmy’s Hideaway was our sanctuary. Tucked beneath street level like a secret worth keeping, it was dark, cool, and filled with the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. We were seated at a cozy two-top in the back, near a little window that let in just enough light to remind us the world was still spinning.   We didn’t so much order as we indulged.   First came the Fried Calamari, impossibly crisp and tossed with cherry peppers like the cook knew we were from Rhode Island and not to be trifled with. Then the Grilled Wellfleet Oysters, smoky, briny little wonders kissed by fire. The Asian Glazed Meatballs were sweet, savory, and just unhinged enough to feel like a rebellious choice. We debated mains. Sadie considered the salmon—briefly. But the moment I said “Grilled Filet Mignon Au Poivre, rare,” she closed her menu like it had insulted her and said, “Same.” That’s love, right there. Mimetic meat selection.   The steaks arrived like old friends: seared crusts, blood-warm centers, peppercorn and cognac whispering filthy secrets on the plate. We added Grilled Asparagus for virtue and Hand-Cut Fries for vice. Both were consumed with an urgency that suggested we’d spent the last four hours foraging on the tundra instead of laying in the sand.   For dessert? I went with the Cappuccino Chocolate Mousse Pie—a towering, mousse-laden miracle that tasted like a high-end espresso decided to seduce a brownie. Sadie, without even pretending to hesitate, got the Sea Salt Caramel Cheesecake, which arrived like it knew it was her soulmate. We swapped bites. We exchanged raised eyebrows of mutual approval. The table looked like a crime scene by the time we were done. No regrets.   After dinner, we wandered back to the car in that quiet, contented haze that only comes from a perfectly executed meal. The sun had dipped behind the dunes, casting a golden smear across the harbor. We rolled the windows down, let the ocean air cool our skin, and drove home slowly—past cranberry bogs, over the Bourne Bridge, into the darkening woods of southeastern Massachusetts. Somewhere near Fall River, we stopped talking entirely. Just the engine, the road, and the hum of two very full, very happy souls returning to their nest.   We pulled back into Glocester just before midnight. The house was still cool and dim, as we’d left it. We stood in the kitchen, barefoot, the moonlight washing over the floor. I kissed her shoulder. She yawned. And just like that, the Cape slipped into memory—filed away in that quiet drawer where the good days go.   We’ll go back soon. Probably when the world gets too loud again. Probably when the heat index dares us.   But for now? Back to real life. Back to charts and codes and central lines and sleepless nights.   Though I’ve still got sand in my shoes, and she’s got that sundress drying on the line.   Which means—we’re not entirely back. Not yet.