Early Departures and Seaside Promises

Good Wednesday morning from the still-shadowed corners of our quiet Glocester road, where the cicadas are just beginning to tune their instruments and the dew hasn’t yet surrendered to the weight of the sun. It’s going to be another scorcher—one of those New England summer days when the humidity hangs in the air like a jealous lover, clinging to your skin and whispering, “You’re not going anywhere without me.”   Sadie and I are both off from the hospital today, and like two truants with a plan, we’re slipping out of town before the rest of the world even stirs. The 1982 Porsche 911SC is already packed and purring in the driveway, shaded by the early light and hungry for the open road. We loaded her up last night—beach chairs, a few towels, the obligatory wide-brimmed hats Sadie insists we wear, and a cooler that currently waits in the fridge, holding iced teas, hard seltzers, a watermelon-feta salad she threw together, and a pair of Tupperware containers filled with cut-up grilled chicken and orzo with roasted vegetables. Surgeon-level precision even in picnic prep. That’s my wife.   We’re heading to the Cape. Again. It’s become a ritual—every week this summer, we’ve escaped down Route 6 like it’s our own private highway, chasing the promise of briny air, golden sand, and an ocean breeze stiff enough to knock the hospital right out of our lungs. And each time, we pick a different beach. It started innocently enough—”Let’s try a new one next time”—but now it’s turned into a full-blown coastal scavenger hunt. Sadie’s got a running list. She won’t show it to me, of course. Today’s beach? Unknown. She calls it “a surprise,” which in Sadie-language can mean anything from a secluded little spot with wild roses growing in the dunes, to an exposed stretch of wind-blasted coastline with zero shade and questionable parking. Either way, I’m game. That’s marriage. That’s adventure. That’s Wednesday.   We’re leaving early—stupid early. That calculated kind of early only people from Rhode Island understand when it comes to crossing the Bourne or Sagamore Bridge in summer. We’re trying to beat the deluge of Out-of-State Plates and minivan misery. The traffic gods are fickle, but if you catch them before they’ve had their morning coffee, sometimes they let you pass in peace.   The drive is part of the joy. The 911 was built for days like this. With the windows cracked just enough to let the wind swirl through the cabin, and the engine making that glorious growl through each tight turn, it feels more like flying low than driving. Sadie likes to DJ on these trips. She leans into the analog stereo, flipping through playlists and occasionally cursing at the Bluetooth adapter, while the hum of tires on asphalt harmonizes with Pearl Jam or maybe some Bossa Nova if she’s feeling cosmopolitan.   There’s a kind of sacred quiet in that drive before dawn. We talk sometimes, sure. But mostly, it’s the kind of silence that only comes between two people who know each other inside and out. Comfortable. Intimate. The sound of her sipping coffee from a travel mug, the way she props her bare feet on the dashboard, the glint of her sunglasses catching the first light—it’s better than therapy.   Later today, when the sun is high and cruel, we’ll be somewhere barefoot and salty. She’ll probably read under the umbrella with her German paperback crime novel while I wade into the Atlantic, the kind of cold that makes your bones second-guess your decisions. Then we’ll dry off, walk the shoreline, talk about nothing, or maybe about everything.   Dinner, like always, will be decided on the fly. Maybe a seafood shack we’ve never heard of. Maybe one of those high-end joints where the oysters cost more than your mortgage payment, but you still walk away smiling because the view was worth every damn dime. We’ll toast to nothing in particular. Just to summer. To making it through another week. To the smell of sunscreen and salt and sunscreen again.   Wherever you are today, I hope you find a sliver of joy in it. Whether it’s air-conditioned and caffeinated or sunburned and sandy, claim it as your own.   We’re off to chase the sea.