TRAVELING in style : A VERY SPECIAL PLACE

I was born with wings on my feet and sand in my shoes. When I was growing up, my world consisted of the tri-state area of New York (specifically the Bronx), New Jersey and Connecticut. The trips to New Jersey and Connecticut were occasioned by family weddings or wakes. But I read books that were set in China and England and Russia and France--and always I dreamed the travel dream.

At age 21, it came true. By brushing up on my high-school French, I managed to become a Pan American stewardess and joyously “walked across the Atlantic” to Europe, Africa and Asia. Foreign travel will be a part of my life style until my legs are too weary to tread the Bridge of Sighs.

But another place, this one closer to home, always haunted my imagination, too.

Cape Cod.

I avidly read all the women’s magazine stories in which husbands took the Friday evening train from New York to weekend with their families at the Cape, and I considered them a privileged lot. Then, 20 years ago, a friend invit- ed me to visit Cape Cod, and I have never failed to return. Now my cottage sits precariously on a bluff over Cape Cod Bay. The sun sinks beyond the horizon so close to the deck it seems as though it could be touched. The moment it drops from sight is wondrous, giving one an awesome sense of sitting at the feet of God; and then, an instant later, the sky is imbued and infused with streaks of pink and lavender, orange and yellow and red--a nightly kaleidoscope.

I spend summers at the Cape and often slip up for a quiet winter weekend when the welcoming warmth of the sea has fled and the ocean becomes assertive with angry whitecaps and crashing surf. The ocean is a jealous mistress and fights fiercely to recapture the land it once claimed as its own.

In any season, the sight, sound and scent of the sea as it roars against the Cape Cod shore has become part of my very being. The tranquil beauty of lakes pales beside this majesty; the wind is filled with sea mist. I taste the cool, salty spray on my lips.

You may say that this could be true of any ocean-touched land. I would raise my voice in protest. The Cape is special . Our first settlers landed not at Plymouth but at Provincetown and after six months realized that the sandy soil could not be farmed. That was when they set sail again and took root at Plymouth, the first permanent English settlement. But forever after they remained intrigued with “the narrow land,” as they called the Cape.

There is a sense of timelessness about the place. Present, past and future meld, and a sojourn there refreshes the soul. Well-kept homes bear the legend of the generations they have sheltered. The dates on modest metal plaques read 1690, 1712, 1742, 1825, 1890, 1910. A newer house proudly bears the legend 1988. In 100 years, it, too, will take its place in history.

A walk or a bike ride along the quiet streets can become a trip into another time. The names of the lanes and paths evoke a sense of deja vu . Mooncusser Lane honors the wily natives who, in the 17th and 18th centuries, would stand on the beach on moonless nights and swing their lanterns. Shipmasters, believing they were following the lights of other schooners into the harbor, sailed toward the beacons and crashed against the shore. The mooncussers then became scavengers and helped themselves to the bountiful cargo.

Many old Cape homes have--hidden behind the fireplace--a room that can be reached by removing a false panel in a cabinet traditionally placed next to the hearth. It has been piously believed that this was a room where settlers hid from Indian violence but it seems equally accurate to say it was where the mooncussers hid their booty from the outraged representatives of the Crown.

I ride along U. S. Route 6A to antique at the dozens of charming shops, many of them in historic houses. Route 6A was long ago called the King’s Highway, but after George III, our last king, lost his colonies, the settlers dubbed it the Cranberry Highway. Well named! Cranberry bogs still cover acres upon acres of Cape marshland.

The handsome captains’ houses built in the 18th and 19th centuries are famous for the railed balcony perched on the roof. On any one of these, the anxious wife of a shipping captain who was due home would begin her vigil, scanning the horizon for the sight of her husband’s vessel. Many of the ships never returned, victims of pirates or storms. Eventually such a balcony became known as a widow’s walk, a name it bears to this day. I never pass one without wondering about those women who often waited in vain.

Hyannis is the busiest town on the Cape--”too crowded in the summer,” to quote the year-rounders. It has its own legend, the Camelot years, when a handsome young statesman vacationed in his family home and the President’s flag flew with lofty pride over the Kennedy compound.

I have always enjoyed combining writing and travel. On a trip, I constantly take notes that will come in handy for the next novel or the next short story. At the Cape, it is sheer joy to awaken and watch the sun cut through the ocean mist, to have my coffeepot perking and to settle down in front of my computer. I like to think of myself as a storyteller. For me, each work begins, in essence, “Once upon a time.” How much more creative I feel when only a sliding-glass door separates me from the vast expanse of water; when sea gulls call their mournful cry; when a break includes a swim, or a walk on the beach, preferably at low tide. It is then that the layer of rocks is exposed and I am free to roam uncautiously in the shallow water.

Sesuit Harbor is 2 miles away. Some days we get our boat--a 22-footer that is perfect for water-skiing or cruising or fishing--and motor across the bay to Provincetown. There we tie up at the town dock and head for a nearby restaurant to enjoy crab-meat croissants and bowls of piping-hot clam chowder.

A favorite meal at night is steamed lobsters and sweet new corn, a green salad and garlic bread, all washed down with chilled Chablis--and in the background, that magnificent sunset.

Friends and family, domestic and overseas, have come to treasure sojourns at the Cape. A 20-year-old Dublin cousin visited for the first time two years ago. “Sure, Mary,” she said, “I’m convinced that when I die and go to heaven, I’ll open my eyes and be in Cape Cod.”

Twenty years ago, my own children ranged in age from 9 to 16. Now four grandchildren are learning to love the Cape.

“When will it be summer?” they inquire. Andrew, just turned 4, asked me this past August, “Who put all the water there?

“God,” I told him.

“How far does the water go?”

“Many, many miles. Three thousand miles, and then the other houses begin.

Andrew considered. “I think God started filling it from the other side.”

Advice to parents and grandparents: If you want to spend meaningful time with your children and grandchildren, get a beach house at Cape Cod.

Around June 15th, I announce, “The court is moving north,” and pile my car with belongings for the long stay in the cottage. Just after Labor Day it is time to put away the cutoffs and sandals and rediscover the unlovely realities of hosiery and heels, ensembles and accessories, crowded calendars and deadlines.

But time passes swiftly. The few precious fall and winter weekends of curling up by a fire in the ocean room are realized. And soon after Christmas, faces brighten. It’s time to make plans for the summer. Soon we’ll be going back to the Narrow Land, the Cape. It’s never soon enough.