Jun 01 2009
The Rhythms of the Sea
Because it was Judy’s vacation, we went to the Maine coast. I’m more a creature of deep woods, but it’s not always about me. Judy has a challenging job. When she needs to get away from it all, the coast is the best place for her to go. So we rented a cottage and escaped to it for a few days.
The cottage faces an estuary – one of ten estuaries along a fifty-mile stretch of coast known collectively as the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge. We couldn’t afford a place overlooking the beach. That’s okay. After a couple days of gazing out the window, watching the estuary fill with saltwater then drain again, this cottage seemed like the best place for us. It is easy to fixate upon the oceanic horizon, ignoring the rising and falling tides just below the line of sight. But the rhythms of the sea are dramatic and inescapable just a little farther inland, where six hours is all that separates a flooded salt marsh from a muddy one.
A chilling rain fell steadily for three days. That kept the sun worshipers off the coast, leaving more room for us. Wherever we went, whether it was the beach, a rocky stretch of coastline, or in town, we were pretty much alone. Just the two of us. Steady rain has its advantages.
Judy was happy enough walking the beach or resting in the cottage. Other than that all she required was a big bowl of fresh steamers chased with cold beer. I had binoculars in hand most of the time. I don’t think of myself as a birdwatcher but birdwatching is hard to resist on the coast. Along with the ever-present gulls, I glassed ducks, eiders, cormorants, and herons just off shore. A fast-running plover entertained us as we walked the beach. A gaggle of Canada geese kept to the salt marsh for the most part. A snowy egret fished alone in the estuary the entire time we were there. Good company.
Days passed. The water kept rising and falling in the estuary. The ocean withdrew from the beach, leaving countless shells behind only to reclaim them a few hours later. Waves crashed to shore at high tide, washing away the tracks we left in the sand. When the tide receded, I felt a part of me drawn towards liquid oblivion – as if I too was being swept away. The sea is like that. It wants to reclaim all that belongs to her, all things organic. Even a landlubber like me can feel it: caught in the rhythm, in a primordial magnetism.
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