A bit of insight into this months post: I was given a great gift, for six full days in Cape Cod. I was given time, freedom and the beauty of the ocean to write. It was off season, so the people who would meet my eye and smile, giving me permission to visit with them for a moment or an hour, were the locals who are truly blessed to live in this very special slice of earth and water.
I met wonderful people, genuine and thoughtful,yet cautious to share their stories and views with an outsider, until they realized I’m not a traditional definition of a tourist. I was not a snotty nosed, careless individual who expected everything. Nor was I one to barge in, build multi-million dollar homes in their neighborhoods, adding nothing to the community, then occupy the estate for only two weeks out of the year. Mine was an unexpected visit and I was star struck, excited and overwhelmed by the beauty and power of the ocean. How the grass drew circles in the sand when the wind blew on shore and danced. That each sunrise was spectacularly different each morning. That toasting the day with coffee in silence was something more than a morning jolt. Also, I must thank my mother for her valuable lessons – because having manners was recognized and returned, a hand extended in friendship and email addresses shared. I invite you to read my prose-poem, I hope it reveals some of the magic found in Chatham,MA.
I Came For The Sunrise
This is not a cool spring breeze. Nor the showers with promises of May flowers. This is fury.
The wind does not dance among the Adirondack chairs, but slams them to the ground and dares them to sit upright again.
The ocean rages against the shore. It grabs itself like a lady gathers a long and obstinate gown to rush up a flight of stairs. Then smashes the fabric against the lace of an angry wave again and again and again. The wind screaming above it all, demanding to be heard.
The window rattles in front of me as I watch this raw display of nature. Only death itself would keep you from feeling the energy as the Atlantic claws its way up and over the sand. Licking at the sea-grass and gobbling up the walk way.
I felt an icy finger slip down my spine. Perhaps a sailor from the past walked through the room and back to his ship lost at sea, missing a woman’s touch.
The rain splashes the window, it reminds me of the glass men were learning to master, when it was as wavy and imperfect, scarcely letting in the sun, but distorting the view perfectly. I can barely see the tormented waters on the vast horizon.
But I feel its strength and the power man can only harness in a dream.
Although I am in the castle Chatham, whose walls bravely face the dragon’s cold merciless breath, I am anxiously unafraid. Watching the lanterns swing back and forth, their light struggles to cut through he wind and driving rain. Veranda chairs tip and shift positions. Rattan washed clean sit unusable today.
Trees brace themselves fromt he decades of storms and gales and pray for the summer breezes to arrive soon.
As dawn attempt to brighten the sky, it exposes dark flat stones that glisten in the pale light. White caps now appear, as an ever changing landscape of salt, water, sand and I’m sure hidden creatures safe beneath the anguished surface, in depths I cannot fathom.
Far above a lone seagull navigates the tempest, tossed and beaten he seems to evaporate right before my eyes. I strain to find him – he has vanished. There was nothing I could do. My chest feels tight. As I watched, I was holding my breath.
The wood of the Captain’s chair feels smooth and comforting to the touch. I grasp it tightly as I sit alone in the great hall. The fire crackles and burns on, undisturbed by the squall.
A bell’s mournful sound, dampened to a thud more than a crisp sharp ring is heard far away. It sounds sad and lonely.
The time suggests the sun should be up. Yet the sky and ocean share the sea glass blue and safe green with frothy white bands of waves impossible to distinguish one from another.
The sunrise I had hoped to see has also succumbed to the storm.
Is it truly morning? Or is it really dusk? Is that the mast of a ship? Or the shape of a whale?
The ocean refuses to reveal details – only shadows in the storm.