the ocean is right here now

In the east end I am the tour guide past Mediterranean pink stucco dream squares. a car going the wrong way nudges our bumper like a tender baby whale. we drive a big car a green behemoth. they always do this: it is a one-way street but no one listens. we go outward to the west end. where the Provincetown inn was is now underwater: a stone circle beneath five feet of ocean. On the horizon which is terrifying the waves come in, huge. The people scream, dive under. “you used to have to go to herring cove,” I say, gesturing, “race point but the ocean is right here now.” on the modified wharf that consists of sequential rooms that march out to sea into the screaming surf. the first room has a concrete floor and the wharf guys standing around. “ this is as far as we can go. It’s just too dangerous out there.” I go out. the rooms are made of pilings and rotted wood, doors hung together to make walls. Vicious towering wave hits. I hold my breath as the room fills with water then drains through the myriad holes in the structure. one made of concrete floor and a truck. A silent guy with curly hair. I keep on. Finally I make it to the room the farthest out to sea. Through the wavy glass of the window I watch the next wave build, a monster. I gasp and go under as it hits. when it finally passes, I turn back and make a run for it. Back at the wharf- guy room with the concrete floor they tease me: “hey, go through that hole.” A small circular opening in the plexiglass wall that protects the mainland from the horrible sea. One room breaks off. I go to greece. The sun pounds down onto white tiny houses on the beach, each with a single window. The people are screaming: go away! There is no room for you here! Meanwhile, his light is still on in his upstairs window.