This commentary was written by Walt Amses, a writer who lives in North Calais.
The sun is literally sparkling off the dappled surface of the water where Cape Cod Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean. A lone seal cruises by 10 feet from shore, oblivious to the scant few people on Herring Cove Beach as four old friends mark the end of summer, ruminating on the numerous times we’ve landed on this narrow tip of The Cape together and separately over the last 50 odd years. We discuss the world’s myriad problems; vigorously defend our disparate solutions; but mostly we laugh, which seems a fine fallback position in a world increasingly difficult to explain.
Inadvertent and unintended climate refugees from St. Petersburg, Florida, our friends decided to follow through on plans made months ago despite the very real threat of a catastrophic hurricane landing on their doorstep. With a mandatory evacuation order in place anyway, a Provincetown condo sounded better than a cot in a high school gym for who knows how long. Although they lost power for several days, a neighbor finally sent a series of photos of their undamaged house as Ian wobbled, inflicting massive devastation south of their area.
The water here is blue, but not the bluish green of the tropics or the Gulf of Mexico, much darker and more foreboding, its ebullient sparkle notwithstanding, more like a suit you might wear to a funeral. And to be sure, the waters surrounding this curling peninsula are rife with peril. As the seal population has exploded in recent years — estimated now to be 30-50,000 — so too has the number of great white sharks, often captured on drone footage startlingly close to unaware beachgoers. The signage at most beaches offers a bleak reminder: “Sharks frequent these waters” … “Swim at your own risk” and even first aid kits specified for “severe bleeding.”
A couple of days later, fighting a stiff breeze, I struggle to get my fly out into the bay, raising a couple of small Spanish mackerel instead of the striper I’ve fantasized about since I caught dozens in this same spot on a pre-Covid October afternoon. When I finally wade ashore I realize I’ve not once thought of sharks, focused instead on a horizon dappled with dark, angry clouds integrated with a series of altocumulus and cirrus, their ice crystals scattered by the sun’s diffraction into the luminous iridescence of ancient fish skeletons.
Though incredibly beautiful, the phenomenon I’m enjoying is the leading northern edge of what used to be Ian, a stark reminder that as the seas around us warm there’s far more coming ashore to worry about than sharks. However gruesome the reports, the likelihood any of us will be killed by a great white is about one in four million. Five times more people will die from bee stings than shark bites in a given year.
As we were riveted on the devastation in Florida — Ian was considered the worst in the state’s history — we may have forgotten that it was the third “worst storm ever” to make landfall in the past month.
In mid-September a low-pressure front in the Bering Straight fed by volatile air from former typhoon Merbok hit Alaska with hurricane-force wind, high seas and a storm surge that caused disastrous coastal flooding. Complicating matters further, unlike its far southern neighbors, Alaska’s recovery operations will be seriously compromised by impending winter: dropping temperatures and shortening days plunging vast areas into near total darkness by December.
Barely a week later, on the opposite coast, after cutting a swath through Puerto Rico, Hurricane Fiona rode the ever-warming waters of the North Atlantic — where tropical systems often go to die — forcefully slamming into Eastern Canada with the whole package: raging winds, torrential rain and tidal flooding. Inspecting extensive damage in Stanley Bridge, north of Prince Edward Island, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau pledged to find ways to build more resilient infrastructure: “Unfortunately, the reality of climate change is that there will be more extreme weather events. We’re going to have to think about how to make sure we’re ready for whatever comes at us.”
As we popped in and out of the galleries and shops along P-Town’s rain-slicked Commercial Street, courtesy of Ian, its wrath depleted, downgraded to a mere tropical rainstorm, absurdly traveling nearly 1,500 miles to overtake our self-evacuating companions, proving again that Sonny Liston had it right, except in his own case. After being appraised of a young Cassias Clay’s ring speed and agility, the menacing heavyweight said “You can run but you can’t hide.” That night in Miami so long ago he never did catch up to Clay, who became heavyweight champion of the world and as Muhammad Ali, an internationally beloved legend for the ages.
That we are not especially legendary doesn’t prevent us from enjoying this legendary place much as we always have, dancing around puddles, the dank afternoon enlivened by pride flags vigorously flapping in the freshening breeze and a series of multi-colored umbrellas that populate the street like cartoon mushrooms. The crowd is sparse, weekenders likely deterred by the weather. Tables at coveted restaurants are readily available. An actual wood-burning fireplace across the room on a chilly evening makes you feel special — off-season special, but hey, whatever works.
The weekend brings gale-driven downpours and the already small crowd dissipates even further as we opt for staying in, ordering take out and watching Netflix. The next morning the wind continues to rage but the rain subsides and we gravitate toward the ocean beaches — Race Point and Head of the Meadow — under a still glowering sky, intent on meeting what’s left of Ian in person.
I rethink wearing shorts as billions of tiny quartz crystals do their best to exfoliate my bare legs. I’m transfixed by the sea, still angry and alive, waves crashing up and down the shore, their white crests a stark contrast to the leaden sky. I shudder at the thought of winds five times the strength of these. There are no sharks in sight.
