RELAXING IN THE HAMPTONS

I didn’t pack my bathing suit. At 82, I questioned whether the lifeguards would even notice if I fell in the undertow.

But my suitcase bulged with pastel silks and ecru linens, signature “Hamptons” attire for a long weekend at son Chris and daughter-in-law Jennifer’s lovely home in Quogue, an idyllic village nestled on the south fork of Long Island. The town is labeled “the quiet Hamptons” and that’s exactly what I longed for….

Mr. Wonderful wasn’t quite up for the getaway so he stayed home. Step-daughter Amy and fiancee David handled the transportation, hauling me, numerous suitcases, and 30 ice-packed Maine shedders in the way-back. We drove from the Kennebunks to New London where we boarded the Cross Sound Ferry to Orient Point, basking lazily during the crossing in the afternoon sun on the top deck. 

“We’re making great time,” I said from the back seat as David negotiated a key left turn onto Sunrise Highway, mere minutes from Quogue. We’d barely gone a half-mile before a squadron of police waved us off to a side road. Apparently, Donald Trump’s 747 had just landed at Westhampton Airport and his multi-car motorcade of black SUVs was en route to a fundraiser in Bridgehampton. 

The first Friday in August is change-over day in this luxurious yet laid-back seaside playground and, not surprisingly, one of the worst traffic days of the season. Add a presidential candidate with hyped-up security due to the assassination attempt resulted in us sitting in the longest traffic jam in Hampton history. Two hours later we finally pulled into the kid’s driveway. My Ginger Beer never tasted so good!

Before going to bed that night, I eyeballed their spacious back deck and vowed: that’s where I’m going to spend a lot of time this weekend.

My “relaxation” began at 6:30 AM Saturday — before the sun rose — when I went to cheer 14-year-old grandson Henry in a triathlon (swim, bike, run). At 8, we all gathered at the Quogue Field Club to devour a post-race breakfast of pancakes and bacon, then strolled over to the clay courts to watch 16-year-old grandson Miles play tennis in the club championship. At 11, Amy and I visited an outdoor art show in the village center. After lunch, Chris and I drove the boys to Westhampton to work on their rankings in a UTR Tennis Flex tournament. Since both matches went three sets, we didn’t get home until 4:30 when we immediately changed into our silk and linen finery to greet 26 of their friends arriving for the lobster bake. After finishing the ice-cream-topped blueberry crisp (FYI: made by Kathy at Port Lobster and the tastiest dessert on the planet), the whole group went back to the Field Club to hear live music. I fell into bed sometime after 11. I think.

Sunday morning was just as “relaxing.” Breakfast on the deck, a lengthy post-mortem about the party, then to the Beach Club for lunch and sitting in chairs under umbrellas as we watched the surf pound the shore, then more tennis watching and afternoon cocktails in the Pub Room before heading back home for a family barbecue. Bedtime was bliss.

The sun was shining brightly at 7 AM on Monday when I carried my coffee and phone out to the back deck to sit and do Wordle. A gentle breeze stirred the phragmites that hem the adjacent marsh, an ambitious bumblebee swooped in and settled on a vase filled with sunflowers, and for 45 absolutely serene minutes, I relaxed. “Time to go,” David yelled from inside the house, and off we went to Orient Point to catch the ferry for the trip home. 

I loved every relaxing nanosecond.

(And thanks to Sarah Vance of Kennebunk Beach for letting me use her New Yorker cover.)