Provincetown Massachusetts the first landing spot of the Pilgrims. They stay briefly before heading to Plymouth. These days a very different type of pilgrimage takes place. This small town has become a tourist mecca. At one time it was a grand fishing village. My indoctrination to P-town was as a crewman on a 95 foot Coast guard cutter. I would roam the galleries while my crewmates roamed the pubs and discos of the late 1970’s. Whale watch boats ran cruises and ferry boats ran to Boston and Plymouth while we waited for a call to search for or tow in a fishing vessel in distress. On one occasion, we executed a dramatic rescue that changed the way I saw myself, and from that new perspective, how I saw the world and how I fit into it. A little heavy for this blog, but I mention it here to show the powerful connection I feel for this storied seaside town.
Tucked In
Most of the fisherman have moved on. There are a few left, but it is the throngs of tourists that give the town its life now. In the harbor there are hundreds of boats moored and waiting for the next cruise or sail. The colors in the sky, the light changes constantly as the day evolves from morning to noon, then noon to dusk. The deep blues shift deeper and then more red, to violet, to rose then fire red, it is an amazing transformation.
I walked along the sandy shore on one afternoon. I was filled with a day of consuming fresh art and fried clams, French fries and a stuffie or two. If you don’t know what a stuffie is, I feel pity for you, and will leave it at that. The day was slipping away. Down along the shoreline, several boats were beached for the day. It was over. They were tucked in as the sailors had gone home. On nights like this one, when the world gets quiet, I can hear the hissing of the sun as it tucks itself behind the horizon afforded by the ocean. It is the sound of magenta.
The evening follows, and the muse has been fed.
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