Wicked good surf, ice-cold water, lukewarm politics

by Mark Silva

WELLFLEET, Mass. -- Sometimes politics, when viewed from afar, has an other-worldly appearance to it.

We've been about as far as we could get with the family car this past week, parked in the pine and sandy woods of Wellfleet, half-way up the upper arm of Cape Cod and midway between an old warm harbor and ice-cold ocean.

Sailors on the horizon. Most photos by Silva.

Harborside in Wellfleet.

From a distance, we've seen outtakes of Bill Clinton criticizing President Bush for the commutation of a friend's sentence. In a word, Rich. But we've also seen the former president, wearing an electric canary-yellow sport shirt, out there campaigning with the former first lady, and wondered who, really, is looking for some attention out there in Iowa.

House in the pines. The only thing that changes here from year to year are the prices.

Having had a chance to write about that commutation on the way out here – that's a story in itself (with two failed laptop computers in the car, the correspondent wrote the "Scooter'' Libby tale in longhand and dictated to an editor back home – "Kenny, get me rewrite"') – we've also pondered all these reports about Bush "not ruling out'' a pardon.

From a re-reading of the Bush statement on the commutation, it sounded, to these ears, an awful lot like the last word on the subject. Perhaps Bush has not ruled out a pardon in the same sense that Al Gore has not ruled out another campaign.

Mayo Beach. Photo by Nina Sichel.

And then there was Gore: Wearing an oil slick on his head in that goofy appearance on Larry King Live. John Edwards may be having a bad hair year, but Gore apparently could use an appointment with that high-priced stylist. But then, anyone who can get Foo Fighters, John Maher, Melissa Etheridge and Phil Collins on the same show deserves a hand, and Gore really did give that seven-point Earth-saving pledge last night like a guy who still has a race in him. And that band playing for the penguins in Antarctica was totally cool.

From afar, we've also heard of Mitt Romney staging another one of his "Ask Mitt Anything'' forums at a town hall-styled campaign appearance in West Palm Beach, and wondered, isn't that sort of open-ended invitation what got Gary Hart in trouble? But, then, Mitt's a good family man.

Talk about trouble: Some people have built too close to the bluffs overlooking the Atlantic here.

We haven't heard much about Rudy Giuliani, John McCain or Fred Thompson out this way, and we are beginning to think that's the way they want it: Dodging the news bullets until the fall.

We've heard Barack Obama talking a lot about "change'' – but then, as with the guys who encountered my father on the clay tennis court this past week (he's pushing 80 and still playing singles), we wondered: "Where is the follow-through?''

Good fences make...

Around these parts, the only thing that changes from year to year is the price of lobster down at Hatche's seafood market in the town square, up a dollar this year, $10 per luscious pound. They fetch $20 a pound for smoked scallops.

We opted for the smoked bluefish, three bucks for a salty filet.

Clammers at low tide at Mayo.

Out on Mayo Beach, on the harbor side, the tide has quite a range. Not exactly the Bay of Fundy, but a good long run, exposing the tiny seeds of oysters in the soggy sand as it rolls out and leaving sailboats and Boston Whalers alike moored at their grounded anchorage in the exposed bottom.

White Crest

Out at White Crest Beach, on the sea side, the bluffs stand 100 feet high over the beach that the surfers love best.

Toward sunset at White Crest, the shadow of the dunes creeps across the beach, and seals come out to look around, their heads poking out of the surf not 30 yards from shore.

At this hour, swim, and surf, at your own risk.

The water is so cold, the surfers wear wet-suits, for rent in the parking lot at White Crest.

We had some wicked good weather out here, mostly mild and crisp and cool, finishing with a couple of days which, in the local parlance, were "skawe-cha's.''

Up at Provincetown, they make a Portuguese sweet bread – Massa Sovada – that's not too sweet. We pan-seared some linguica, the Portuguese sausage.

We told them one year up at Silva's Seafood that our name is Silva, too. They couldn't care less. This is, after all, New England, buster, so what's it to ya'?

This place is closer to New Hampshire than it is to Iowa not only in proximity, but also in the warmth of the townspeople. In fact, after about a week of the famed hospitality of the Cape Codders – "Can't wait til da' New Yawkahs arh outta heah'' – Iowa is starting to look better every day. And South Carolina. And Florida.

Sunset at Mayo Beach.

And all that politics that awaits us.

Gathering storm: Primaries on the horizon.