Innkeeper’s Journal: A late-winter walk to Breakwater Beach in Brewster on Cape Cod
Sometimes us New Englanders are too tough for our own good.
I mean, I have no excuse. I knew it was going to be cold. The meteorologists were practically giddy about the biting wind. Fifty-mile-per-hour gusts in Brewster, Massachusetts. Wind chill well below freezing. But the sun was out, shining like it owed me something, and spring felt close enough to taste. I was tired of being stuck inside. I wanted to get out and take some photos. Breathe some brisk Cape Cod air. Maybe see the ocean. Just a short walk to Breakwater Beach. So, I threw on an overcoat, and left the Candleberry Inn. No hat. No scarf. No gloves. Just me, my camera, and a few grandiose notions about my own tolerance for the cold.
Now, here I stand, thirty seconds into my walk, at the end of the long driveway, and the part of my brain that knows better starts nagging: “Why didn’t you grab a hat, a scarf, and some gloves?”
But do I turn back? Of course not. The other part of my brain takes over: “You have a coat. You have a camera. What else do you need? You’re tough. This is nothing. You’ll be fine.” I bang a right onto 6A and start walking toward the coastline.
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Photos from the walk to Breakwater Beach in Brewster on Cape Cod. Click any Image for a Larger View.
Photos courtesy: TAUBERT Gallery | Eric J. Taubert
The Brewster Store looks picturesque in the late-winter light…
The American flag is snapping in the wind like it’s trying to escape. I pause, pretending to admire the scene, but really just stalling. Having second thoughts. The frigid gale already gnaws at my ears.
By the time I pass the Old Burial Ground on Breakwater Road, the wind turns vicious. The trees thrash, their bare branches rattling like ancient bones. The trunks creak and groan like a clipper ship at sea. The furious, invisible, air blusters, hisses, whooshes, wails, and howls.
An older man approaches, heading the other way. He’s bundled-up to the point of anonymity – hood, hat, scarf, the works. All I see is a greying beard poking out. I try to play it cool, greeting him with an overly cheerful, “Good morning!”
He laughs – probably at me – and says in a thick New England accent, “It’s howling down below…” He gestures toward the beach, his tone implying, “You’re not dressed for this, buddy. Turn back now.”
I don’t.
One hand clutches my camera; the other jams into my coat pocket. My ears go numb. My face feels like it flash-freezes. “Maybe I’ll pop up my collar,” I think. It doesn’t help. “Maybe I’ll pull my shirt over my nose to warm up my face.” I do. Immediately, a car rounds the curve, and I feel like an idiot. My poor life choices are on full display. “Look at that poor sap with the shirt up over his face. What the hell’s he even doing out here?”
A winter-wear-outfitted woman walking two dogs rounds the corner. She glances at me, then at my camera, and takes me for a tourist. “It’s crazy windy down at the beach…” is what she says – but it’s clear she’s speaking in code. Her real message is: “You’re not going to last long down there. You won’t be getting many photos today.”
I try to look warm, bending down to mutter some awkward puppy-talk to her giddy pets through my frozen and increasingly chapped lips. She smiles knowingly and moves on.
“Why don’t the dogs look cold,” I think.
A few moments later, I traverse the short, sandy pathway over the dune and finally reach Breakwater Beach. The wind immediately goes from bad to apocalyptic. The sky is blue. The ocean is dark and frothing with wild whitecaps. The seagulls are hunkered down like they know better. Each inch of my exposed skin is under attack, sandblasted by tempest-borne granules. I fight the good fight for maybe ten seconds before retreating to the cover of the dune path.
I snap a couple of half-hearted photos, bracing against the relentless gusts. “Yeah, this is no good. Enough’s enough.” I surrender, leave the beach, and start the walk back to Candleberry Inn.
“It’s crazy windy down at the beach…” I mutter to myself, smiling. “Guess I won’t be getting many photos today.”
Writing by Eric J. Taubert. Innkeeper (Candleberry Inn.) Chef. Artist (Taubert Gallery.) Fine art photographer. Writer. Marketing executive. Vintage cast iron enthusiast. Publisher of New England Innkeeper. Find him on Facebook at @newenglandinnkeeper + @taubertgallery. X at @erictaubert. Find him on Instagram at @newenglandinnkeeper + @taubertgallery.
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