Race Point Reverie

Yesterday, as if in a deliberate act of defiance against the laws of rest and recovery, Sadie and I decided to double down on summer. I had just gotten back from a four-day guy’s trip in Wilmington, Vermont—a boozy, meat-heavy, EDM-fueled bacchanal in the Green Mountains that left my liver and my ears tenderized in equal measure. No sooner had I thrown my duffel bag on the floor than Sadie looked at me and said, “Let’s go to the Cape tomorrow.”   I don’t know what it is about that woman—maybe it’s her Bavarian blood or her general disdain for idle time—but she’s got the uncanny ability to snap me out of my post-trip daze and into spontaneous motion. So I nodded, cracked a smile, and said, “Let’s take the Porsche.”       We left Glocester early, the sun still yawning over the treetops, the 1982 black Porsche 911SC humming like a caffeinated wasp. I never tire of that car. Something about driving that machine—its old-world steering, its mechanical honesty—makes the journey feel like a ritual. There’s a kind of sacred geometry to it: the flat-six growling behind us, the soft weight of the air thickening as we neared the coast, the rhythmic push and pull of second gear through the back roads of eastern Rhode Island.   Sadie wore sunglasses and a straw hat, sipping iced coffee with her bare feet on the dash like it was her birthright. The Porsche has no cupholders, of course—German cars from that era assumed the driver had better things to do—but we made it work. We always do.   By late morning, we rolled into the outer edges of Provincetown and made our way to Race Point Beach, that endless, sprawling stretch of sand and sky. There’s something mythic about Race Point. You feel small there in the best possible way—like a guest at the edge of something older than you’ll ever understand. The tide was low, the sun generous but not brutal. Sadie laid out the towels while I unloaded the cooler.   We brought food—actual food, not just chips and fruit like some amateur operation. Cold grilled chicken, crusty rolls from a bakery in Wellfleet, herbed couscous, watermelon, and enough water bottles to irrigate a small village. We stretched out in the heat like contented lizards, swam when we felt like it, and watched the plovers chase each other in a zigzag ballet at the water’s edge.       After hours of sun, sand, and the sort of deep conversation that only comes when you’ve both finally slowed down, we packed up and decided to explore. I’d forgotten how much I love just wandering with Sadie. She’s a curious soul, always willing to pull over and chase a curiosity down a sandy path.   First stop: Hatches Harbor. The walk was quiet, contemplative. That marshland has a stillness to it, a hushed beauty. You almost feel like you’re intruding on some secret meeting between sky and earth. Sadie took photos, mostly of textures—driftwood, sand ripples, rusted iron peeking from the salt grass. She has a way of noticing things I overlook. It’s maddening and endearing all at once.   Then we made our way to the Race Point Lighthouse. It never gets old. The path there feels like it was designed by the universe’s greatest minimalist—just dunes, sky, and anticipation. When we reached it, I stood there staring out at the open water, pretending I was a 19th-century mariner wondering if I’d ever make it back home. Sadie, less prone to maritime melodrama, simply leaned against the fence and soaked in the view.       By then, our stomachs were growling like engines, and we headed to Fanizzi’s Restaurant in Provincetown for dinner. Fanizzi’s is perched right on the water—an unpretentious spot with big windows and a menu that punches above its weight class. We scored a window seat, the tide gently brushing the shore like it was trying not to wake anyone.   I ordered the grilled swordfish with garlic mashed potatoes and a side of roasted vegetables, and Sadie got the baked stuffed shrimp—gargantuan creatures swimming in buttery breadcrumbs and lemon. We split a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc and toasted to summer, spontaneity, and the twin miracles of sunscreen and German engineering.   Dessert was a shared slice of key lime pie, which we ate like two thieves, spooning it back and forth while the pink and orange sunset draped itself lazily across the sky.       The drive home was slow and soft. The kind of drive where you don’t talk much—not because there’s nothing to say, but because silence feels like the right companion. The Porsche purred in the dark like it knew we’d done something right that day.   Back home in Glocester, we kicked off our shoes, poured a couple glasses of water, and made our way out to the dock by our pond. The moon hung low, casting its reflection across the water like a silver brushstroke. Sadie put on some music—Fleetwood Mac, I think—and we just sat there. Two slightly sunburned people with sand still clinging to our ankles, letting the day wash over us.   There’s something healing about days like that. You forget the schedules, the call shifts, the endless grind of a profession that sometimes eats you alive. You remember why you work so damn hard. Not for the paychecks or the prestige, but for the Porsche drives, the spontaneous beach trips, the seafood eaten with bare, sun-salted hands—and the quiet dock at home where you sit beside the person who reminds you that life, if nothing else, should be deeply, deeply lived.   Ask ChatGPT