The Cape Cod Commandment

It was early evening, that golden sliver of the day when the frogs start tuning up their instruments and the sun dips low enough to catch the shimmer off the pond just right—like nature knows we need a little romance after another Saturday of grown-up nonsense. Sadie and I were sitting on the dock, feet dangling, beers in hand, unwinding the way we do best: saying very little, soaking in the stillness, and pretending like tomorrow isn’t already waiting in the wings with a to-do list and a smirk.   And then, as the dragonflies hovered like tiny helicopters and the breeze nudged the cattails just so, Her Majesty made a royal proclamation.   “I want to go to the Cape again tomorrow.”   Not we should go, not do you want to? No, no. This was a decree.   Now, in our marriage, there are suggestions, there are discussions, and then there are declarations. This was the latter. Delivered with all the quiet authority of a woman who knows exactly what she wants, and exactly how to get it. I had originally planned to golf—nothing dramatic, just nine holes, maybe hit the driving range, practice my slice into oblivion—but alas, the clubs will stay in the garage, and the sand I stand in tomorrow won’t be in a bunker.   So. A beach day it is.   Sadie’s already out at the market, hunting down what she calls “beach snacks.” Translation: a curious spread of Bavarian meat sticks, gummy bears, espresso-flavored chocolate, maybe some spicy olives, and those damn black licorice wheels she swears are good but taste like regret and asphalt. She shops like she’s provisioning for a picnic with pirates—something salty, something sweet, something pickled, and something no one else will touch.   She also mentioned—casually, the way a queen might mention which horse she prefers for battle—that we’ll be taking the 1982 Porsche 911SC. Of course we will. That black, low-slung, moody little beast that still smells like gasoline and vinyl and poor decisions. Last time I drove it was also to the Cape, and it did beautifully, except for the moment in Sandwich when it nearly overheated in traffic behind a Subaru with three kayaks strapped to its roof. But she loves that car like it’s a former lover she’s rekindled a flame with. It’s loud, temperamental, beautiful, and makes Sadie grin every time she downshifts.   So now I’m mentally revising the rest of my evening. Instead of relaxing in front of a movie or tinkering with my EMR inbox, I’ll be driving the Porsche out to Smithfield, top off the tank, maybe wipe down the windshield, check the tire pressure, and have a brief existential crisis at the gas pump about why premium is now priced like a small bottle of Dom Pérignon.   Looks like we’re waking up early tomorrow. You can’t go to the Cape on a whim unless you leave before the rest of Massachusetts gets the same idea. The plan will be the usual: Sadie making coffee, packing towels and sunscreen and the weird European beach blanket that’s half tarp, half netting. I’ll be triple-checking the oil level and trying to find my sunglasses, which I’ll inevitably leave on the bathroom counter anyway.   We’ll aim to be wheels up by 7:00 AM, cruising down the highway with the windows down, the engine howling like an angry German opera singer, and Sadie in the passenger seat—barefoot, radiant, sun-hungry and already peeling into the gummy bears before we hit the bridge.   And honestly? That sounds pretty perfect. Even if I do have sand in my ears and salt on my skin by the end of it. The best days start with a declaration—and this one was signed, sealed, and spoken on our dock, under the golden light, when all was calm and quiet… just before the queen commanded the sea.