Since the big cities aren't so friendly to the big rigs, our stay in Boston was cut short, and we dashed out the back way and headed towards Cape Cod. We had been assured we would find wind there, too.
Sure enough, as we cruised out on the Cape, we found the wind. We found the windsurfers. We broke out the kite. We met quite a few folks at Kalmus Beach, who gave us the low-down on sports on the Cape. Also we discovered that there would be no place for us to park overnight, and the Cape locals were very private property minded...and just about every stitch of land was private property. We're starting to see this as a trend on the east coast.
Kiting at Kalmus Beach.
The wind picked up and Brant was overpowered but holding it in on the 11.0, having an absolute blast until the sun's absence made him down the kite and call it a day. Night already upon us by the time we got the equipment put away, we drove out the highway to the one spot the locals had suggested we might park overnight: a 24-hour Burger King.
As we turned off the engine in what we hoped would be a camp-without-hassle for the night, an angel appeared at the driver's side door, asking us what The Extreme Road Trip was.
George Smith appeared out of nowhere and we chatted with him, right there at 9:30 at night in the Burger King parking lot, and he revealed all sorts of secrets that were invaluable to the RVer. Since no campgrounds would let us dump, we were dangerously close to becoming incapacitated with no water and full waste tanks. He told us we could dump for free at any land fill on the east coast. We were unsure where we could stay on the Cape. He told us of a beach he thought would let us park for free overnight. He told us about his native Nova Scotia, which is a camper's paradise, a place where, once visited, we would never want to leave.
When we bid him good night, our spirits were high. After all, it isn't every day you meet an angel.
The Burger King Campground went off without a hitch, without any authoritative knocks on the door in the middle of the night. We woke up and were sucked into the alien Dunkin' Donuts station that stuck like a parasite to the Burger King building. Then we headed off to West Dennis beach, where it was rumored that kite boarders had been spotted regularly.
Sure enough, West Dennis had a few kiters out, as well as a generous handful of windsurfers. The wind was favorable, blowing consistently to get everyone up on a plane. And some of us up in the air!
B coming in close.
Sunday we were heading to West Dennis again, but had to take care of some business first, taking advantage of the new info we'd received from our angel at the land fill, then heading to the A&P for much needed groceries. There we were, pushing a well-oiled cart up the deli aisle, when a hand planted itself on Brant's shoulder and a cry landed in our ears:
"Well hello, Extreme Road Trippers!"
It was the angel. George had sought us out to give us a handbook on Nova Scotia. We told him that we took up his info at the land fill, but still needed to fill up with fresh water...only one more problem to tackle.
"Hmmmm. Let's see," he said, searching his memory for a resource. "OK, give me a second to think about it. Just keep shopping and I'll find you."
Five minutes later he's back at our cart, now in the middle of cookies and cereal, with a t-wrench in hand.
"Come on, then," he said, full of energy. "I've gotten the market to let you fill up with water from a spigot on the side of the building."
Sure enough, we just pulled right over to the A & P loading aisle, George whips out the t-wrench and turns on the water and he's fixing the last of our problems. He bid us adieu, told us what beach he'd be at, hoped to see us there later, and was gone. If we weren't sure about his angel status the night before, it was irrefutable now.
The wind never picked up enough at West Dennis Beach, but as the sun set we pulled the kayak off the roof of the trailer and put in at the mouth of Bass River. Paddling among the sailboats and million-plus private fishing yachts, we cruised around Stag Island a mile or two up the river. We ran into a coast guard, who settled a bet on how much the fanciest boat went for (Brant won...$1.2 mil), and told us that the owner fished tuna as a hobby. Just last week he had caught a 250-pound tuna that had a high-enough fat content to be fair game on the Japanese market. Which meant $72/pound. Turns out to be a pretty lucrative hobby, when you work those numbers. Do you think that fish knew it was worth $18,000 when it was swimming with the school?
