Cape Cod Beckons: A Porsche, a Plan (Sort Of), and the Art of Summer Escapism

There’s a particular kind of morning that whispers to you. It doesn’t shout, doesn’t demand, it just leans in close and says, “Hey, you’re not staying home today.” Today is that morning.   Sadie and I are both off from our hospital and office gigs—the stars have aligned, the schedulers have relented, and for once, Boston can survive a day without us. On these rare summer days, when the sun’s already lazy and the pond out back is glass-smooth, there’s really only one thing to do: point the nose of the 1982 Porsche 911SC towards Cape Cod and drive like we mean it.   This little tradition of ours always begins the night before, on the dock, where conversation is light and the air smells like pine needles and distant campfires. Last night, as the frogs orchestrated their moonlight sonata and Schnitzel prowled the shoreline like a miniature mountain lion, Sadie looked over, took a sip of her wine, and asked, “Should we head over to the Cape tomorrow?”   Now, let’s not kid ourselves. When Sadie “asks” if we should go somewhere, it’s not a brainstorming session—it’s the prologue to a plan already in motion. She knows the beach, the restaurant, and probably the exact time we’ll be rolling back into Glocester tonight. But in this dance we’ve perfected, I’m content to be the guy who finds out when we get there. Even though I’m the one driving.   The morning has been its own kind of choreography. The Porsche sits in the driveway, gleaming defiantly against the hazy sunlight. The wildfires up in Canada have gifted us a soft, golden veil over the sky. It’s not enough to deter us—it just makes the world look like a faded Polaroid, and frankly, I’m here for that aesthetic.   Packing the car is an exercise in restraint. Sadie’s got a canvas beach bag with the essentials: towels, sunscreen, a paperback novel that’s survived two summers of salt and sand. I toss a small cooler in the back—bottled water, a few sandwiches Sadie insists are “clean eating,” and a med kit because, well, old habits. Trauma surgeons and Critical Care doctors don’t get to switch off completely. There’s also a portable speaker, because what’s a beach day without a soundtrack? (I’m lobbying for some 90s alt-rock; Sadie will inevitably sneak in a few German indie bands before lunch.)   Bentley and Davey are stationed by the garage door, giving us the kind of soulful, betrayed looks that only dogs can master. Schnitzel is nowhere to be found, probably plotting an elaborate coup in the kitchen. The neighbors give us a wave as they pass on their morning walks. They know the drill. When the black Porsche rolls out, it’s a Cape day.   In a few minutes, I’ll fire up that glorious flat-six engine. It’s not the kind of sound you listen to—it’s the kind you feel in your chest. She doesn’t purr. She snarls. Mechanical, raw, unapologetic. Every drive feels like a small act of rebellion against the sterile, silicon-infused world of modern cars.   Sadie hasn’t told me where we’re going yet, but if I had to bet, it’s somewhere between Wellfleet and Chatham. That’s her stomping ground. She’ll pretend it’s a spontaneous decision when we “stumble” upon the exact parking spot she already mapped out. Dinner will be “wherever we end up,” which is code for the bistro in Chatham with the lobster risotto that has achieved near-mythical status in Sadie’s culinary hierarchy.   But that’s all hours from now. Right now, it’s just us, the open road, and a day that hasn’t yet revealed its surprises. The Cape is calling, not with urgency, but with that casual, come-hither glance that knows it doesn’t have to try too hard.   The world can wait. Today, we drive.