Here, on the mile of sand that is West Dennis Beach, the stretch between lifeguard chair number 7 and 9 is, for me, sacred ground. It is where my extended family meets for one special weekend in summer. Where my sons long ago chased seagulls and steered skim boards across the tide line. Where, as a youngster myself, I made some of my earliest attempts to ride the waves. And where my mother and dad sat in their final years -- she did her crosswords, he read his books— and, at the end of each season, saw in the October twilight an orange slice of so many days packed into one rind, slipping away.
We who stand witness to the end of each season are left with the million footprints of those who have come here to dig in the sand in those waning days. I dig into the sunset. Feel the fading light. Check the birdhouses in the marsh. Have the osprey circled back? If I am able to drop by in winter, perhaps a snowy owl will have come to roost. Let the birders rejoice.
In season, the entryway to the beach is busy with the comings and goings of vehicles and sunbathers heading for the bathrooms and snack bar, but as the road, lined with parking spaces, heads toward Bass River, one is transported to a different world. The sky gets large and the land becomes a rolling carpet of hibiscus, goldenrod and other maritime flora. So much human commotion side by each with the natural world and the surprises it brings.
I remember the afternoon when a bottlenose dolphin was gently lifted from its canvas sling back into the murky waves. That same day, the dolphin had been feasting in the waters of Wellfleet on the Menhaden (mossbunker). It swam too close to shore and was grounded. The rescue team brought it here, to West Dennis and not Wellfleet, lest the dolphin repeat its mistake. It went into the water quietly, two rescuers on each side, until it disappeared. There was a moment of worry by those us watching on shore, and then it popped up again and headed out. We clapped. I looked at the dolphin’s dark shiny backside and wondered how far it would go by the time I got home. How far by morning?
Each season at West Dennis, the Jersey barriers go up to cut vehicle access to half the parking lot in order to protect the piping plovers as they nest. Some days the lot is closed completely, costing the town of Dennis thousands in parking fees and eliciting hisses and boos from those who say the inconvenience is too much sacrifice for one small bird. I did my own share of complaining until I understood the rewards of that annoyance. I valued the beach even more. I reminded myself to take care in countless ways even when the plovers had moved on.
Now, as I sit on the beach for one last day, I recall Kerouac who said everybody goes home in October. The sun burns orange on the horizon. I freeze the moment in my mind and file it away before I head back to my cottage for the mournful task of closing up. I’ll pack away the grill and garden hose, drain the water pipes, pour the antifreeze and remember how blessed I am to have a holy hideaway on Cape Cod.
On to the withering leaves. How lucky to live in New England.
