If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages here and there
You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
Old Cape Cod – Patti Page

photography by Atisha Paulson
words by Alexandra

The first day, the sign said Beat the Heat! and we dove headfirst into the unconvincingly shark-infested waters of Wellfleet. We swam alongside the seals, which we were amusingly starting to resemble. We were all a little older, a little fatter, giddy with that sorta summery vacation pixie dust feeling, nostalgic bullshit. Modelo, suntan lotion, weed, lobster rolls, wet butts sitting on towels in a too-hot car, things like that.

The second day we could hardly swim across the pond. Some of us had to go back the way we came, breathless, and watch as the others turned into specks on the opposite dunes. No one complained when we went to bed early. The third day we jumped in feet first. We looked like what you think of when you say the word doze.

The fourth day, we went back to the beach. We waited on the edge of the waves, uncertain. Waiting to see a shark, get stoned, for the fireworks to start. Waiting for something to happen. An old man said to us, This is the spot where Marconi first sent his magic signal across the Atlantic to Poldhu. Three dots for S. You can see it, right over there. We looked. It was a beer bong stuck into the ground, and some Red Sox fans singing Sweet Caroline. We laughed. That signal never made it, it’s still out there. We started feeling a wondrous weightlessness at the thought of it. We were happy, we floated, nestled in invisible layers of time.

We weren’t sure what we were waiting for. The radio said hoooold on, hold on. It was all we could do.