Air-Cooled Engines and Oyster Bliss: A Day on the Cape

Some days unfold like a slow jazz record—no rush, no urgency, just mood and movement. Today was one of those rare July gems, when the to-do list gets replaced by a to-don’t, and the only agenda is to chase sunlight and salt air. My wife and I took the 1982 Porsche 911SC out for a spin—not just a spin, mind you, but a full, open-throttle escape to the arm of Massachusetts: Cape Cod.   That car—my old black 911—runs like a dream but makes you earn it. No power steering, no cupholders, just raw mechanics and unfiltered noise. It rattles and hums and smells like gasoline and nostalgia, and it connects you to the road the way few things in this life still do. Sadie climbed in wearing big sunglasses and a linen wrap dress that fluttered dangerously in the coastal wind, looking like something out of a 70s Riviera photo shoot. I tossed a beach bag into the back seat, said a little prayer to the air-cooled gods, and we set off.   We hit Route 6, windows down, wind howling through the cabin, Springsteen humming on the Blaupunkt, and all the tension from the week evaporated somewhere around Sandwich. I always forget how quickly the Cape makes the rest of the world feel optional. The trees change, the houses lean in close, and the sea starts to flirt with you from beyond the pines.   We spent most of the day at Coast Guard Beach, one of our usual haunts. It’s alive this time of year—families staking out their plots like sun-kissed homesteaders, teenagers performing the ancient mating rituals of Frisbee and volleyball, and the ocean roaring like it still has something to prove. The water was cold enough to make your teeth clack, but invigorating in the way only New England water can be. Sadie swam with that slow, confident grace she always has—methodical, unbothered, like she owns every inch of the sea she touches. I waded in, took the plunge, came up laughing, and forgot about work entirely.   After enough sun and salt, we decided it was time to dry off, shake the sand out of our shoes, and trade swimsuits for something slightly more civilized. The 911 was waiting for us in the lot, still warm, still perfect. I gave it a pat on the hood like a loyal horse, and we pointed its snub nose toward Brewster.   Dinner was at The Brewster Fish House, a spot we’d heard about for years but somehow never made it to. Tucked into the heart of town, it looks modest from the outside—almost too unassuming. But like any seasoned New Englander, it keeps its brilliance tucked under a weathered exterior.   We were seated promptly by a young host with a surfer’s tan and a poet’s vocabulary. The room was small but intimate, filled with muted laughter, flickering candles, and the scent of butter and sea. It was one of those rare places where the acoustics are soft and the vibe says you’re welcome here, but don’t ruin it.   We started with Wellfleet oysters—plump, briny little beasts that tasted like they were shucked by Poseidon himself. They arrived perched on a bed of crushed ice, accompanied by a mignonette so perfectly acidic it could have cleaned a scalpel. Sadie raised an eyebrow at the first one and simply said, “That’s dangerous.” Which, from her, is high praise.   For mains, I had the pan-seared halibut, served over a bed of sweet corn risotto with a charred scallion butter that made me consider licking the plate. Sadie opted for the lobster tagliatelle—handmade pasta tangled with claw meat, spring peas, and lemon zest in a light saffron cream that could’ve seduced a nun.   The wine list leaned toward coastal whites and small-batch reds, and our server recommended a crisp Albariño that paired so well with the food I started writing mental thank-you notes to the winemaker.   Dessert was a shared plate of house-made panna cotta with macerated strawberries and basil syrup. The kind of dessert that makes you close your eyes involuntarily and remember that life, when you let it, can still astonish you.   We lingered a little after the check came. Not because we were waiting—just because neither of us wanted to leave. You know that feeling when you’re full, not just in the belly, but in the soul? That.   The drive home was quiet, dark, and utterly peaceful. The 911 purred along Route 6 like it knew the way by heart, headlights slicing through the mist like they were born to. Sadie rested her hand on my thigh, head tilted toward the window, the air thick with salt and contentment.   We didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.   Sometimes a good meal, a cold sea, and a roaring old car are enough religion for one day.