This spring break, while most of UR migrated south to soak up the sunshine and spend hours with their toes in the sand, I hit the road and headed home to a very damp and cold Cape Cod. Though the plan for the week was to curl up in bed for unhealthy amounts of time while watching Netflix and snuggling with my little brother and sister, I found myself braving the New England chill out on the paths of Scorton Creek with my dog Sailor every single day I was home.
There’s something about Cape Cod that I have yet to figure out, something very special, that makes it different from any place I have ever been. The winter especially, perhaps due to the absence of the tourist hordes, makes it abundantly clear to me just how lucky I am to live in such a place. One can appreciate it with every human sense. You can taste the slight saltiness of the air from the rough oceans surrounding the peninsula. The whipping winds that seemingly never cease toughen your skin. You’ll always hear the constant creaking of the docks and aging fishing boats, grinding like the bones of a giant. Unlike the tides that dominate the locals’ concept of time, the beauty of the sweeping dunes, cranberry bogs and marshes never ebbs. The scent of low tide is the scent of home, despite how quickly many visitors flee from it.
There is a running joke among the Cape Codders, saying that we safeguard an extremely valuable secret in our knowledge of backroads and traffic avoidance. I think we guard a far more valuable one. Cape Cod is beautiful in the summertime, yes. But it is more than a sunny beach, a few ice cream shops and a lot of history. To truly appreciate Cape Cod, one must be here in the winter, when many abandon ship (excuse the nautical pun.) I had one of the best spring breaks I’ve ever had, and all I had to do was go home. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.