Forty-four degrees Fahrenheit and a light wind is a gift on this winter afternoon, ideal for a trip to one of a favorite spot, Mayflower Beach in Dennis. You can have Acadia, the Flume and the rest. Mayflower rides the pole position on my list of New England’s natural wonders.
As I park, I hear the brittle branches of bare vegetation squeak in the wind, a song for the season. The cushiony boardwalk to the shore has been taken up for the winter, so the sandy path is harder to tread but better to appreciate where I am.
It’s low tide, the reason Mayflower becomes the superstar that draws the summer crowds. A hard shimmering platform of sand stretches out in all directions, the same surface where my sons as children played in its tidal pools, discovering the tiny critters hiding in its warmth—each time getting themselves a little closer to the water, until they were riding waves, skimboarding and crying out to stay a little longer.
A beach like Mayflower teaches one to trust the ocean.
I count four other people on this chilly afternoon, each at least a football field away. The seawater carves rivulets into the compact sand, leaving long planks of wavy lines that mimic the effort of a master woodworker. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say the woodworker finds his inspiration here.
Now the salty brine in these narrow trenches hurries back to the water, making its daily U-turn, and soon the sand will give way to what it stole from Cape Cod Bay.
The sun warms my face. I listen to the beach’s version of silence—a steady hum of the gentle rolling surf. I see houses cliffside and envy their proximity to the unspoiled.
Sadly, some of that has been lost in warmer months. I can remember when Mayflower began landing on lists of the most kid-friendly in the US. Or most scenic. I watched as the number of visitors increased exponentially, forcing creation of an overflow parking lot and drop-off area so that vehicles could deposit beachgoers and leave.
The sugar shack got a big upgrade. The bathrooms and outdoor shower too.
In 2023, rowdy, drunken July 4th crowds forced its closure and tighter restrictions going forward. In online chats about the Cape’s visitor experience, you’ll inevitably find someone complaining about the hour-plus wait to get in. We were told be there at 8 AM and we were and we were still stuck!
One of Mayflower’s best features happens on the other side of the day: its sunsets. They are mostly unforgettable, screensavers for a lifetime—and the parking after 5 is free.
Years ago, we’d pack wine and chips and join another two dozen or so to watch the sky radiate its brilliant orange and pink. Today the sunset crowd fills most of the parking. You have to get there early for that too.
I don’t begrudge anyone who found this beach or those sunsets after I did. I’m not one to pull up the drawbridge once I’m inside the castle.
But winter has taught me that Mayflower is a more honest expression of itself this time of year, still delivering on its responsibilities as a natural wonder minus the long lines and $32.50 lobster rolls.
Arriving at the surf’s edge, I look to where the horizon bends the sky. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of the world, refreshed and recharged all thanks to Mayflower Beach in winter.
