Full of Far Away

Tune in each month as acclaimed writer Louise Rafkin takes us along on her wacky adventures, offering a tender and quirky look at places and faces around the world.






P-Town Cruising, Girl Style The boys do it easily. They bike out past the moors, hike over the dunes, and position themselves for viewing. Some are provocatively dressed -- or not. Some are in groups of three of four. There is sex in the dunes, that we know, and eyes made across sand hills and patches of poison ivy. A bronzed shoulder is noted and found later at the A-House or the Boatslip. Conversation is lengthy or brief, but everyone knows who is out for a date, a good time, or a good you-know-what.

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Then there are the gay girls. Hoards of 'em stream to Provincetown for the weekend. They've packed the requisite baseball cap, cut-off jeans, and -- for those from the suburbs -- a rainbow of neon-emblazoned sportswear. (And yes, some are just packing.) The single ones come in troops and are looking to meet Ms. Right or at least have a dance or exchange a glance.

Expectations nearly always outweigh results. Girls just plain stink at cruising. Even in these heady days when sex-positive lesbiana has taken us out of the realm of sisterhood, it almost takes a California earthquake to get two mutually attracted girls to chit-chat. It may be conditioning -- that wait for the man on the white horse does seem to have left some lingering psychic residue. It may be logistics. It may be biological. I'm willing to accept any theories. However, things have got to change.

Tips and targets at Herring Cove Herring Cove -- the left side, not the right -- is where most of the girls gather. Trudge out over the burning sand, and don't forget to tote your beverage of choice -- it's hot and there's no water fountain. Upon cresting the beach, it will suddenly seem like you've somehow arrived at a gay girl theme park -- something along the lines of Malibu Barbie teamed up with Dollywood.

To the right of the opening are the gals who have schlepped too damn much to the beach and simply cannot schlep any farther. The lesbian moms often camp out here -- and who can blame them, with their diaper bags and kiddie tents along with the usual food, drink, and three or four jokey play things. To the left are various enclaves of geographically segregated clans. Bostonians usually set up a volleyball court and create havoc all day chasing balls onto towels and kicking up sand. However, sporting events can often lend themselves to introductions, and joining a game is recommended if someone catches your fancy. We locals usually curse these games, which hog too much beach on crowded summer weekends. But hey, it's an easy in, and even if there's no electricity in the air you are likely to be extended the offer of a beer after a sweaty match.

Bostonians and those from farther afield can also be recognized by their swim apparel and accoutrements. They carry more traditional beach gear, actually have sun block, and don more neon and matching swim suits than locals would dream of. Local girls will be the ones sprawled about five hundred yards left, mid-beach. Sometimes there is a friendly (ha!) game of poker going on here, sometimes a waif on a crying binge: a dumpee or a waitress who's had it with French Canadians who don't tip on $200 dinners. Locals carry towels and frozen bottles of water and wear Calvins or boxers or just grungy undies. They almost never wear girly suits, but keep some kind of top wear handy for the inevitable "Ranger!" call which echoes down the beach like an old-fashioned relay at least two or three times a day. (Topless is still a crime here, but some claim immunity by pasting Band-Aids over nipples. We've yet to see them get the all-too-common $50 ticket for public nudity.)

Picking up a P-town girl is difficult but not impossible. Try asking the time, or inquiring about the ranger/nudity situation, or where to eat in town (they've worked at every restaurant and know exactly where to send you.) Local mating season is high in June, and most are hooked up by July, but break-ups occur and fresh blood is appreciated.

More low-key opportunities for beaching If the crowds at Herring Cove are too daunting, take a boat shuttle over the Long Point, where there are scads of empty sand plots amidst scatterings of shore birds. Flyer's boat yard runs this service ($10 round trip) and it's well worth the money. Collect a gang and make your own party. Local gals are often there escaping the masses. The hearty of soul may just want to walk out over the breakwater and forgo the boat trip. The walk itself is worthy of note -- a nice antidote to weaving through the crowds on Commercial Street. The breakwater is also a nice place to meet up with strangers. It's the place to go after a particularly hard workday, when the recently single are contemplating the plunge back into the feeding frenzy known as dating.

Race Point beach is doable -- the long open stretches of sand counter the crowded, sardine-like feeling at Herring Cove -- but don't expect to find other likeminded gals there. It's family time -- mostly straight tourists and bus tours. Yikes! But it's pretty in the early morning or late evening.

Out of town you might try one of the swell freshwater ponds in Wellfleet or Eastham, though I'm not telling you the whereabouts of my very own Secret Pond, and especially not my Secret-Secret Pond. They are gems, and you have to sign on for at least two winters before anyone will share pond info with you. Once you dip into these beauties, you'll realize that suffering two winters of biting cold is really a small price.