Cape May Diaries
34- Waves like bolts of silk
Subtle differences mark the sea each time we came to Cape May. One early evening during a stormy visit in the late 1990s, Sharon and I stared out from shore near our motel, stunned by the strange shades of gray that it had taken on.
Sharon said the waves looked like bolts of silk rolling up to our feet. I kept thinking of what the Lenape Tribes must have thought during their visits here, when they came to collect sea shells for their wampum, before the Victorians, the whalers or even Henry Hudson.
Each visit creates the feeling in me that I am walking in the footsteps of old ghosts, and that in some future year; someone will walk in my footsteps, too.
In 2005, we stood in the same spot along the beach watching the waves roar in from the numerous hurricanes that plagued the more southern portions of the Atlantic, each dragging onto shore red weed ripped from the ocean bottom, collections of lumber and other treasures.
But Cape May itself changes each time we come, from our first visit in 1990 when it was so hot we could have swam to the frigid weather when we made our day trip here from Atlantic City in 1995 when it was so cold we could not get out of the car.
But change comes here begrudgingly, even though like elsewhere with the same unbearable inevitability.
Sometimes, we witnessed the scars, the loss of what seems unimportant to anyone else but us. Although several people bemoaned during this years visit the loss of the Christian Admiral Hotel when we talked to them about our surprise at finding it gone during one visit in the 1990s. The empty lot at the time felt as if I had lost a mouthful of teeth. This year, we took account of the false teeth that have taken its place. But we also took not of the other development edging up on the harbor side of the cape, like reluctant, nervous swimmers testing the zoning waters of this lazy place to see how far they can go before the life guard stops them, rich people looking for get a piece of the cape before it too vanishes, little realizing that by constructing their summer retreats here, they hurry the decline.
Cape May also changes depending upon when in the month of October we come before or after Columbus Day. Over the last few years our jobs have forced us to build our vacation around Columbus Day itself, patching together sick days and vacation days for an extended weekend that brings us shoulder to shoulder with the most populated part Victorian Week. The best years are those years when we come on the holiday itself, take in a few of the events, then watch the city slowly close down, returning to its winter slumber. We seem to find renewal in watching the season die, sunshine fading into the cold grays of winter. Most years, we see the change of leaves on the long ride back, even when our stay is only very short.
Of course, Cape May has become more and more a year round activity, and this spoils some of Celtic cycles for us.
In the past, we toured the houses here, one year in the back of a horse drawn buggy -- the hooves as much a part of the tour as the houses. Another year, we pumped our way through the narrow streets on a bicycle-style carriage, on which Sharon and I supplied all the power with our legs. One year we took the trolley, a 40-minute candle-light ride through the streets, made slightly disappointed by the lack of information supplied. The tour guide seemed weary after a long dry season and told us little. Most years we just walk and talk and take in the colors as Halloween closes in on us.
This year we took in two plays and a musical adventure supplied by the Atlantic Brass Band, one of those magical elements we discovered a few years ago that drags Sharon back to her days in Julliard where she once has aspirations to become part of a classical orchestra. In walking, we searched out niches of Cape May we knew existed, but did not realize had as much charm as the traditionally treaded historic streets especially those along the south side of Congress Hall, where for a short time I tried to pretend we had actually traveled back in time, passed 1990 to 1890 when we might have found Victorian families seated on each of the porches to greet us.
I ached to come to Cape May this year although we faced no particular disaster as we had in the past. During our trips from Hoboken, we generally left during massive flooding or a breakdown in our heat choosing to address the problem upon our return when we were rested.
Fortunately for us, the flooding in the state did not come until after we had returned north and our pitifully short days were blessed with temperatures in the mid-70s, rain decorating the landscape for only one day without altering the warmth.
While we could not sit on the beach as we had during warmer season, we stood and stared out into the rush of waves, listening to the sound as they cleansed some important part inside of us with their steady rhythm. We had planned on a whale watching trip but the uncertain weather made us put off that pleasure until next year. We had no need. The dolphins came to us, giving us a show along the beach that lasted for a half hour, their bodies rising and falling through the violent waves as birds squawked above them for a share of the fish. We saw fins and the gray color of their bodies as they mocked the surfers that struggled nearer to shore.
An odd magic seems to touch us here, even as far as our finding the movie we wanted at the sea side theater, despite the fact, it only offered two selections.
More importantly, are the changes going on inside of us, each year adding something to our relationship, making it richer and more important, giving us a deeper understanding of ourselves. Despite the rages of the last year, we have bonded more tightly as if we had both waited all our lives for an excuse to come here.