The entire summer had almost passed and, although we spent copious time on Crane Beach in Ipswich, we hadn’t stepped foot on Cape Cod. What is a summer without taking the ferry to Provincetown? It’s not a summer, it’s a hot humid sticky mess.
The build-up to our ferry trip to P-town on Saturday was nearly unbearable for Little Boy on Friday. We kept promising “Sleep first, then boat, bicycle and beach.” Periodically, impromptu to nothing, he would turn to me and confirm, “Sleep first, then boat? Beach?” Even when he woke me up at 3am, he was buzzing about boats, bicycles and beaches. “Sleep first,” I insisted, placing him gently back into his bed, and somehow he managed to oblige.
At 8am, we left for the ferry pier in Downtown Boston with Mr. P’s and my bike strapped to the back of our second car, an older Honda Civic. It was the first time Little Boy rode in the Honda and he was very unsettled in his car seat. We parked in Fort Point and biked to the pier, arriving just in time for boarding. At last — big boat!
Saying Bye-bye to Boston
Little Boy was fascinated, cautious! I took this picture standing next to a large group of Brits who were extensively debating whether to eat “breaky” on the boat or wait for P-town.
When he wasn’t eating $2 bagels and cream cheese, Little Boy was busy exploring all the decks and generally creating an endearing nuisance of himself. When we neared P-town, we braved the strong wind and climbed to the top deck to try and get a good, smiley pic. It didn’t happen.
When we landed in P-town, we disembarked with our bicycles and pedaled through the main drag, which was just waking up — people were jogging, walking for their breaky, oh how I adore P-town — and we rode easily to Race Point Beach. The water was cooold (60 degrees, if that) and the surf was seething from an off-shore tropical storm named Katia. But that didn’t stop Mr. P and Little Boy.
Can I just say something? Most everywhere we go, people smile at Little Boy and make friendly, ingratiating comments. I don’t know if these people do this with all young kids or if there’s something special or attention-grabbing about Little Boy, like that he’s extraordinarily cute, that he’s small for his age with good coordination (there is nothing cuter than a tiny little boy the size of an average 2-year old confidently operating a bicycle), or that he’s black with white parents, or a combination of these things. It doesn’t bother me, although Little Boy has a natural hesitancy around stranger adults and he doesn’t quite have the language to interact confidently.
Anyway, in P-town, Little Boy created a minor ruckus everywhere he went. People pointed at him, sitting in his kid seat attached to Mr. P’s bicycle. People cooed. People smiled and waved and blew kisses. On the beach, we walked past a group of 6-7 young college-aged women, every one a long-legged babe, every one turning her head to watch Little Boy amble past, ignorant to their attention and excited buzzing about “Look how cute!” “He’s a doll!” “Oh, the cutest thing ever!” Too bad you won’t remember this in 20 years, Little Boy. You were the hottest hunk on the beach.
After a little swimming and a nice picnic, we went back to our bicycles and rode through the dunes for a good 5-6 miles. Pure heaven! We then went to Herring Cove beach, hoping in vain for warmer water. But no. Luckily, Little Boy was content to play in the sand.
By then, it was time to head into P-town for some dinner. We found a raw bar Happy Hour that served $1 Wellfleet oysters, then assuaged a contemptuous Little Boy with some pizza. After eating, we roamed the shopping district. In the game store, Little Boy found an edition of the game Operation featuring Buzz Lightyear. It was $30. “Too much money,” Mr. P. told him, and Little Boy looked around and found a penny on the floor, offering it with a hopeful “Money?” No go. By then, it was almost time to board our 8:30pm ferry, and we were all fading fast. Little Boy slept the entire ferry ride back to Boston while Mr. P and I read. When we reached Boston, we cycled back to our car and drove home.
And oh boy. When we got home at 11pm, we found that the Jetta, which we parked on the street, had a big gash on the driver’s side door. A hit-and-run, the third hit and run that has befelled the Jetta in less than 2 years! Un-freaking-believable. This car is cursed. We have since deduced that it was caused by a neighbor and we’re going after her via insurance companies, but still. What a rotten end to an excellent day of boats, bicycles, and beaches.
