Anticipation! That was the feeling that took over when my parents mentioned “The Cape” to me as a child growing up outside of Boston in the 1930s. At the age of nine, in 1933, I wasn’t much involved with the planning and packing that went into my family’s preparation for a vacation beyond making sure that my bathing suit was in the suitcase. After our first trip to Waquoit, I was hooked. When I thought of sun, sand, and salt water, I visualized the Cape.
After years of renting in Waquoit, my Dad bought a piece of land on Little River on which he built a small cottage. From then on, most summer Fridays found us headed for the Cape (no highways then) and making good time until we hit the Canal. Sound familiar? In those early years, the Bourne Bridge was a drawbridge that had to be raised every time a large ship or one with a tall mast came through. Traffic would be backed up for miles and we would impatiently wait for the bridge to lower so we could pass.
Before building the cottage, Dad had bought a boat that we moored in Little River. On one memorable trip, I was driving from Sharon as Dad dozed beside me, weary from his week at work. As we were going through Wareham, I slowed down at an intersection and to my astonishment saw the boat that we’d been towing sailing right by us. My startled scream woke up Dad and we were soon able to re-hitch the errant boat back up. We joked that the boat was even more anxious than we to get to the water, as we realized what would have been a disastrous situation had there been oncoming traffic was merely an inconvenience.