I’ve been commuting between Newport, Rhode Island and Cape Cod every day this week. The drive is not so bad: Route 28 to 25 to Interstate-195 to Routes 24 and 114. In the morning I average about an hour’s travel time and enjoy it because I get to see the fog rising off the cranberry bogs. To get back home in the afternoon, the commute creeps up to an hour and 20 minutes. Escaping Aquidneck in a timely fashion always depends on the number of cars trying to take a left on the island’s double lane traffic pattern. If you’ve frequented this route, then you know what I’m talking about. 

And because I have long hair and don’t drive as slow my Dad, I mostly keep the windows up and enjoy air conditioning. I’m a delicate flower and don’t like to have hair whipping in my face for extended amounts of time. But this is mid-August, and by the time Route 25 feeds me back onto Cape Cod, the summer either traffic slows to a crawl and is at a hard pause. This is the point where I put the windows down and set my hair free.

Memories are at their most powerful through smell and touch—perhaps because don’t you often see them coming. This happened yesterday as I climbed the Bourne Bridge: up the steep incline and then back down again to the fancy shrubbery. Cape Cod is joined by two and a half bridges spanning the canal: the Bourne and the Sagamore, and then the Railroad Bridge (the train bridge gets partial credit because it moves few bodies across the water). But no matter how you get to the Cape, there are aspects of returning that make it distinctive. There are the visual indicators like all roads to the sea growing populated by scraggly-ass native Pitch Pines. But there are the sensations you don’t recall until you are once again immersed. As I rolled down the car window at the bridge’s crest, it was the quality of the wind that woke me up. Ah. I know this. 

I have visceral memories of afternoons in Cotuit, Sandy Neck and South Cape Beach. As kids you don’t mind spending the day applying a coat of sea salt to everything within your grasp. And when parents announced that the day was done, we’d pile into the back of the Green Truck and rumble away. Since our swimsuits were often still damp, there was no point in trying to shimmy dry clothes back on top of them. Instead, we’d stretch marginally dry towels around our bodies and sit with our backs against the extended cab of the truck. The residual beach sand sprinkled throughout the metal bed always pressed diligently into exposed skin. 

Especially if you weren’t yet completely dry after swimming, the air flow from the accelerating truck would at first feel shocking as you jostled about like unmoored cargo. In vain, I’d at first bind myself up more tightly in the beach towel. Not only would my long hair snap at my face, but the temperature drop would send my muscular system into a sort of reflexive brace. As a kid, this kind of tension wasn’t a really a major consideration; I either didn’t consciously record the discomfort or, more likely, didn’t care. The world going by outside the rectangular perimeter of the truck bed—the sun hanging low in the sky and framing the sights of the Cape towns— this effectively served as a distraction from temporary suffering. 

All the same, the feeling still was a bit jarring. The soundtrack of the evening drive reverberated around us as the low-pitched howl of the Cleveland 400 engine mixed with the wind and perhaps another truck occupant attempting to shout over the entire soundtrack. But more than anything, it was the feeling of the wind on my skin that imprinted a bit more of Cape Cod into my primal breadboard. I caught that feeling again with the window down on my recent return from Newport. After a short period of time, I felt my body relax in the cool wind. 

Invariably, there is always a point in a homeward bound journey where the body will relax into its element. You release into the wind, and the familiar visuals slide by and help to compose a wholly immersive experience.

As an adult in London, I wake up each morning full of tense anticipation for whatever I might encounter outside of my bedroom door. I think that as a military person, this comes with the training that make us effective at what we do. But here in this past week, that dial of stress has been twisted to a largely-forgotten point of reduction. It self-adjusts when the canal bridges come into sight and a smile creeps into my face. Down goes the window. I stick my hand out and run my fingers through the air. At the end of the day, within a moving car, the air is a bit cold to the touch, but with that sensation I am transported to another time and I can feel the release happen. The setting sun shining in my rearview mirror. Closer to home, and the only thing that remains is to enjoy the view. 

Going back to the experience of being a beach kid, there was never a question as to whether we’d climb into the back of the truck for a jaunt home (this was the early 1980s, after all). You just did it because it was neat. The potential of associated discomfort didn’t really enter into our calculus—and if it did, then you’d just wasted your childhood. I think about this spontaneity now as I again look ahead to another life transition: moving to a new pace, finding myself in new surroundings without any real guarantees. 

Initial shocks of discomfort can always be counted upon—and because I am a well-programmed adult, I also know that there will be plenty of stress that will build up in my shoulders. But at the same time, the beauty of new surroundings and adventures—the sounds, sights and touch—they help to supersede the uneasiness. It’s the reason any all of us opt to sacrifice some of our safe and familiar comforts. My adult-grade beach towel, it’s just as paltry and sea water soaked as the kind I had as a kid. But like the old ones, sooner rather than later it feels like it’s enough. It might take a tiny bit longer, but eventually I don’t feel the need to bind myself up so tightly. 

My commute for the week is over, and I get a tiny bit of a pause. I don’t have to go anywhere if I don’t want to, and can instead sit in our back yard and eat ice cream. It feels nice, and I can take in the other elements of being home. The cicadas at night, or the sound or the sound of the radio continuing to play the same songs since 1977. For better or for worse, home does a number on us. I’m fortunate that mine has managed to fill my blood and bones with so many imprints that serve me well.