Lately I’ve been hearing the call of the sea, and that’s something that surprises me. I’ve always thought of myself as a forested-hills-and-mountains country girl; during the many years I lived on Cape Cod, I never felt at home, and always missed the north country.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not unhappy living here. It feels right to me. But a number of times this spring and summer, I’ve felt a longing for the coast. A few times I’ve heard some noise or other that sounded eerily like a foghorn, and I’ve been transported; a few times I’ve sworn I’ve smelled salty air. Never one for the daytime beach after skin cancer cropped up on my shoulder years ago, what comes to mind are the evening beach and canal walks, the boats, the historic towns that lie along the shore, quaint cottages with sweet little gardens bordered by picket fences, the tumbling rose bushes along the edges of yards and climbing up onto arbors.
The beach beckons to my daughter, who goes back several times a year as much for that as visiting family; my husband, a former tuna fisherman and Coastie, misses being on the water. But we know the coastal life we’d like is not available to us. Land is terribly expensive there, especially if your heart cries out for a small farm, and the days of living quietly by the sea are long gone. As the years went by on the Cape, more and more houses, big box stores, and multiple-lane highways were constructed; it’s irrevocably changed into something I don’t care for.
But a little vacation further up along the New England or Nova Scotian coast might be just the thing. After daylily season is done, of course.
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