NOTHING LIKE A SPRINT TO P-TOWN

Nothing like a yacht race in the dead of night.

Actually, I don't really know what that's like because I didn't participate in the race. I do, however, visit P-Town to revel with those who sailed under the stars. 

For those who might live outside of New England, P-Town is a nickname for Provincetown, the very tip of the very end of the very long arm of Cape Cod. It's the remotest of the remote parts of the peninsula, yet you'd never know it once you get out of your vehicle or off the boat or down from your bike or step off the ferry, depending upon your mode of arrival. 

My friend and I drive down -- on a Saturday -- when it's sunny and ninety degrees -- in the summer.

That sentence alone scares the crap out of anyone who actually lives in eastern Massachusetts. No one in their sane and right mind would even attempt to cross the Bourne or Sagamore Bridges on a sunny, hot Saturday in the dead-center of the high season, but locals also know that if you cross either bridge early enough, the tourists will be none the wiser. 

Since nobody makes it to the Cape without crossing the canal, technically one might argue that Cape Cod an island. Not true, or, perhaps, we just don't care. The islands are MV and Nantucket. MV, by the way, is Martha's Vineyard. Some "I think I'm so clever" writer tried to call it The Martha to piss off locals, but she missed her mark because: your tourist status shows when you call it Martha anything; your wallet shows if you call it the Vineyard; and no real Masshole would ever be pissed off by anything some outsider had to say because you're the same nitwits who refer to Boston as "Beantown."

So on this steamy and sunny summer Saturday, we hop in the car near Neponset (a south of/still technically part of Boston) and happily head toward the Cape. As we near the Sagamore, nearly every car we see has Massachusetts plates because we know, oh how we know, what this crossing will look like one hour from now and for the rest of the bloody day. We have a forty-five second back-up caused by a minor collision between a truck and a car just as we are ready to hit the metal girders. Other than that, it is smooth sailing all the way to Provincetown. 

Door to door, from Neponset Circle to Commercial Street, we make it in two hours flat. (Locals are high-fiving us from afar and we accept your kudos. We totally promise, a few middle fingers may have been thrown, but no random bicyclists were maimed in the course of this endeavor and no Funk Buses were sideswiped.)

We arrive in time for breakfast, while it's only in the mid-eighties temperature-wise, but by the time we hit the streets mid-morning, it is as hot as the fires burning at the Gates of Hell. We head to the marina to meet up with the rest of the weary night-race crew, and I stand in the one piece of shade on the entire labyrinth dock, sweating my skin off. We are all melting, so we head for more shade and a slight breeze along the wharf.

P-Town is full of small shops and little restaurants and people. Lots and lots of people. Despite the tiny streets and the throngs of bodies, it just doesn't feel crowded at all. My friend bails when the heat overtakes her and meets up with one of the sailors to recover in air conditioning with a dash of Pedialyte while I continue exploring and dripping. Maybe that's why it doesn't seem so humanly congested; we are all trying to avoid each other's sweaty stenches.

One of the best things about Provincetown, though, is its large and accepting LGBTQ community. They have some of the best drag shows around, and I keep encountering one fabulous character on the street, who graciously poses for my camera. When I ask how she keeps her make-up from melting in the heat, I am privy to a glowing and knowing smile and the most bashful eyes I have ever seen. There's a show at 3, I'm told, and another at 7. I cannot make either one, but maybe next time. Drag shows are great fun, but it also feels a little too clammy even here with the multiple water breezes, to be inside a theater.

Later in the day we enjoy a patio reception for the racers, and the crew graciously tolerates me as both an outsider to their group and an interloper to their party. We almost make it to dinner, but then we grab one of the crew members and announce that the three of us are heading back to the mainland. It's after six, so travel will be light. On a summer Saturday evening, people are not escaping Cape Cod unless, well, unless they're locals like we are and know that it's the only opening we'll have for the remainder of the weekend.

I'm a little sorry that this may be both my first and last time to see the aftermath of the night yacht race from Boston to P-Town as the crew seems to be leaning toward not doing this race anymore. Today has been so perfect that I'd like to do it again next summer, and the summer after, and maybe even the summer after that.

Of course, it may have nothing at all to do with P-Town or the Cape. It could just be that it's another damn-fun adventure. All-y'all know that I do love a damn-fun adventure, especially when it involves beating the tourists, enjoying the amazing ocean scenery, and besting anyone who calls an island the Martha. 

In the famous words of Cher (not the singer nor the drag queen): UGH! AS IF!