The Living Tide

.

Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves

that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Classic Poetry Pages)

 

 

A story is told around these parts. A tale of a tide so low that at its deepest ebb, a hidden sandbank is revealed. It is said to be a very rare event

 

Saturday June 14

On Friday, the waters of the Georgia Sound, were caressed, by a full and Strawberry Moon

By morning, uneager to release itself from the Moon’s embrace, the Sea rushed, away from Land as if to abandon it forever

We will be the beneficiaries of that torrid midnight romance

.

Later this morning (just after noon), Wendle, Andrea, Chris, Kato and I join a host of other pilgrims in search of the promised land

We cross the berm and look out to sea

‘Sand Ho!’, someone shouts (no they didn’t but wouldn’t that have been cool if they had?)

It’s amazing…

Normally, the pebbles on this shingle beach extend thirty meters from the driftwood logs to the low tide waterline. Today, that distance has doubled. Beyond the rocks, sand is now visible and at least thirty meters beyond the sand line, people are wading in water that still only comes up to their knees. It’s wild

We’re going to walk down there and have an in depth look, but first we have to safely traverse all of these treacherously lumpy pebbles. Luckily, we are all wearing solid adventurer footwear (running shoes and sandals)

It isn’t until we reach the furthest distance from shore that we realize we have yet to take a picture. Wendy remedies this by handing me the camera

Okay…let’s see here…

At low tide, this rock is normally at water’s edge (March 9 Post)

.

That’s the same rock in the far distance

.

And even though I’m further out then the rest of the gang, the water isn’t even up to my knees. And for those of you who might say ‘yeah but Moose, you’re freaky tall’ (really, someone said that?), Kato is even further out than I am (and he’s only ten…and he’s short)

.

What I’m saying is…we are really a long way from shore and we’re standing in warm, knee-deep water. It’s fantastic

 

The sand is studded with reminders of fragile lives dependent on the sea

.

.

In the tidal pools small crabs scurry away from our approach. I notice one little guy lying on his back. I reach down and flip him onto his tiny white legs. He thanks me by scuttling backwards into a fighting stance. He looks eerily like a tiny Bert Lahr

“Put ’em up, put ’em up! Which one of you first? I’ll fight you both together if you want. I’ll fight you with one paw tied behind my back. I’ll fight you standing on one foot.”

.

I step around him

The rocks are encrusted with living jewels

.

Fantastic forms and hues

.

Tiny ecosystems deprived temporarily of their element

.

.

It’s beautiful

After trekking back to the house, we are gobsmacked by the ever increasing size of Cory and Carry’s Gunnera plant (and it’s going to get much bigger). Andrea suggests a group portrait under the shade of it’s giant leaves

.

Later, just as the sun sets below the horizon, Wendle, Chris and I return to the beach

.

.

Scorned by her heavenly suitor, the Sea has indeed returned to Earth. Embracing it now so passionately, that her fingers tickle and tease the driftwood that rest at the beach’s highest point

I can still feel her warm touch upon my legs

.

Goodnight all

Moose and Wendle

P.S.

Ever dream of walking into a casino and saying, “Bond. James Bond.”? Well now’s your chance to learn how to be uber suave and sophisticated

(and you know it works because it says so)

P.S.S.

I’m sorry but this dude is just flat out gorgeous

.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s