Free Write Friday: Low Tide

We wait until morning, sip percolated coffee, nibble day-old donuts bought at the new gourmet shop adjacent to the ferry terminal. A friend saunters up from an adjacent campsite to let us know they’re heading down to the beach. “It’s low tide, right now!” Kids circle their way back to the campsite, wheels turning. They discard their helmets as we stroll to the rocky cliff.

A woman stands by a sign outlining the local sea life, pulls up her scuba gear, ready to search for urchins, float among the kelp.

We clamber down a few concrete steps, then cling to the rock face littered with barnacles, making our way to a sandy cove. A parent points out footprints: a second grader’s sneakers, a crab’s pointed tracks, the imprints of a dog’s paws padding across the compact sand.

A rock island is exposed, tide pools revealed. Green anemones open with neon fronds, swaying gently until startled into retreat. Bouquets of mussels jut out in clusters among mossy kelp. Limpets cling to the black rock, suction secured. We stop, we bend down to observe.

Two moms well versed in marine life point out the chitons, armed with a hardy shell of armor they remind me of turtles, of shields. There are always eight plates, predictable. One child shouts out, “Mom, come over here, it’s the biggest chiton in the world!” We moms give each other a knowing look: could be, but more likely a 7-year-old’s exaggeration. Instead, we find what she describes: a chiton as big as our hand but without a shell. “Maybe someone took its plates.” The thought makes us sad, a thief of the worst kind. We look it up later and, in fact, the creature is just as it was meant to be: the giant pacific gumboot chiton is without a hard exterior. An aberrancy of its kind in size and structure.

A few more from the group straggle, venture out to the ends of the fingery point in search of an elusive seal that pops its head momentarily up above the surf before diving back down again. My son has gathered too many mussel shells, iridescent shimmer calling to him like a siren, the abundance too much to contain his enthusiasm. “Here Mom, I found another one!” I convince him to choose a solitary shell to cherish as we make our way carefully among the slippery rocks back to shore.

Continue Reading

Free Write Friday: Campsite

I like waking up in the tent, shadows from evergreen trees looming, voices from the adjacent campsite echoing as if through a tunnel, muffled and yet amplified. I took a nap, youngest child restless the night before, waking up in her crib every couple of hours whimpering, unable to articulate what was the matter. I sang to her from just above, hanging over the opening of the the Eurovan pop top, coaxing her back to sleep. “Shhhhhh,” I pleaded, “it’s sleepy time.” She’d suck her tiny thumb dutifully, nestle her chilled toes back under the blanket and fall into a temporary slumber.

We spent the morning on the trail, a 1.2 mile hike to the falls; unambitious I thought, but the way there all uphill elicited whining and necessitated cajoling and stops for snacks of peanut butter sandwiches since I couldn’t find the jelly. We carried the toddler in the hiking backpack, secured by straps, covered by sunshade. The other two discovered perfect walking sticks, treasured for a bit, then tossed aside in search of more appealing finds.

In the evening we ride our bikes around the campground, sampling different loops with unexplored hills and towering trees. Then we settle at the amphitheater for the kids’ ranger program. Khaki-clad speakers with wide brimmed hats talk about native wildlife, the history of the park, admonish about safety and recycling. We dissect owl pellets, we search for huckleberries and signs of animals scampering in the nearby bushes.

After s’mores we sit by the fire crackling. Does it cackle? The flames burst up from the pit, leaping to their destiny, unable to reach their desired height. Instead they are confined, sequestered. I look up to see the black outline of the trees, pine needles fuzzy against the dusky sky, bluing to black. The shadows are spooky and comforting. A paradox of sensibilities.

A gaggle of preteen girls stroll by our campsite, gossiping loudly. My husband remarks, ”That will be M soon.” A troupe, a pod. That’s how she’ll survive, how she’ll thrive or shrink, the passageway to adulthood. For now, this stage, she sleeps silently in the tent as we watch the embers flicker and pop, sip drinks, read books by the rising firelight.

Continue Reading

Free Write Friday: Beach Run

I step onto the sand, fine and sinking under the weight of my upright frame. Feet imprint as sand spills over my running shoes, mesh fabric not immune to the elements. I hurry to where it is more compact, recent tide receding to give way to damp beach, level and accepting to the jogger.

A quarter mile down, I reach my stride, rushing Pacific to my left, chilly and predictable in the June morning fog. I like that the sound lures me to its wake, wary seagulls, dormant sand dollars waiting just ahead. The Pacific teases with its name, as if it would be peaceable, cooperative. Instead, it is a force to be adhered to, to acknowledge fully.

I nod at other joggers as we pass, feet wet, gait off from the usual city asphalt run. I don’t wear headphones, don’t rush my cadence. Running on the beach is a gift to the senses, to the muscles, sinewy body substance aligned with nature.

Ridges appear from waves past, uneven ground bumpy beneath my feet. Shallow water from recent tides remains in places. I’m used to hopping over puddles, formed after a midnight Seattle rain. But this is different, diffuse, a slight impediment, a refreshing coolness.

I pump my arms, lift my legs, admire the burn of the muscles, the arc of the tree line in the distance, knobby evergreens gesturing to the sky. At a mile and a half I turn, make my way back down the coastline. Salty sea air igniting my lungs, the gentle cushion of compact sand accepting my footprints, my mark as I travel back from where I came.

Continue Reading

Free Write Friday: Cross Country Ski

The stillness is deafening. I startle to someone coming up behind me until I realize the swishing is from my own skis, legs scissoring across the powder, cutting into the silence-laden air. My quadriceps, my calves burn under layers of cotton, of smart wool. My nose ignites with the chill of exposed skin, nares dripping with shock. I pull my hood tighter, cocooning my half moon ears.

We come to a pond, sheets of ice overlay sections, tempting the foolhardy. A carved wooden sign marks it a “swimming hole.” I try to imagine a sticky summer day when a jump in those waters would be desirable, a welcome cooling. But all I can think about are my fingertips, numb and double-gloved, constantly flexing interphalangeals, willing the circulation to return.

I hear the river’s rush before we see it, the waters churn over smooth rocks, under the precarious bridge. The sound floats on the air, over the snow, down the trail, amplified as if running parallel, overhead, all around, rushing through us as we ski closer to the river’s edge.

The trail forks, we turn right, enter a grove of birch trees, slender white bark complementing the elegance of the silent snow. There’s a muffling to the drifts, an insulation and paradoxical amplification of sound. I like the set grooves in the trail, a designated place to put my slim skis, a comfortable path to follow. They keep me focused, respectable, out of harm’s way.

Today though, it’s too cold – single digit temperatures jolt this moderate-weather gal. We’re unable to enjoy the journey, frozen extremities too distracting. We hurry back to the warming hut, thermosed hot chocolate and a rush of heat greet us.

Continue Reading

Free Write Friday: Camping


We move by the light of the skies. Time untethered to seconds, minutes, hours. 

Shadows cast onto nylon tents, faded grays and greens meant to blend into earthy surroundings. Toothpicks of trees stretch heavenward, branches and bark punctuating a pale sky. Bikes laid flat on their sides, like fallen dominoes, line the campsite. Brightly colored helmets are scattered asunder. 

They grab their bikes and pump legs up the hill to the playground nestled in the trees. They twirl and slide, climb and spin, dust rising underfoot. Teeth bared, faces upturned with glee, taut with playful exertion.

They return to home base, tumble in the dust, twist in the hammock, balance on the yellow slack line situated between two sturdy tree trunks. Footprints of sneakers and toddler Crocs pepper the campsite. Dirty feet, caked with dust, the reminder of an earth long forgotten by more bourgeois days spent indoors: at school, at work, at homes walled off from such grime. Here, we can’t get our feet clean, no matter a 3 minute token shower, no matter a towel wiping down, no matter a dip in the cold ringing canal, uneven stones and oyster shells underfoot. Still the dark mark of filth between toes marks us. 

Down at the water they zig-zag across the rocky beach, search for colorful stones, treasures of abandoned sea creature skeletons, slimy seaweed. Our backs align straight in the kayak as we glide through the seafoam green toward the hazy hills beyond. A little one dips an appendage or two in the water, leaning from the front unexpectedly as I struggle to stay balanced and centered on the stand up paddle board. 

A burn ban has a dampening effect; we gather around the citronella candle as the skylight fades, skin graying to ashen. Headlamps alight, artificial and glaring. Canvas camp chairs unfold around the would-be campfire. It’s too dark and we succumb to the arc of the heavenly bodies, one seceding as the other takes reign in the sky. 

Camping is a children’s glory: timetable discarded, dirt embraced, leisure activities and food prevail unencumbered. They chase each other through the brambles, swing gleeful in the hammock, unearth large stones to discover tiny crabs frittering sideways, eager to find a new hiding place. Grime accumulates under their fingernails like dust clinging to the mantle at home. It marks them unconcerned, free from the shackles of the modern urban childhood of after school activities and rationed screen time. 

We wake to birds rustling, charcoal light reversing gray to green to sky. I arise despite myself, soak in the soreness of my bones. The light, the earthen air call me to get up, get out, move myself into the surroundings I was meant to inhabit.

We move by the light of the skies. Time untethered to seconds, minutes, hours. 

Continue Reading

Free Write Friday: Cabin

They like to take the ferry, run to the front or the back deck as soon as we embark, salty wind whipping their tiny faces. Their small bodies lean up against the kelly green railing, white foam erupting as the boxy boat rips through the murky waters of Puget Sound. We’ll have some Ivar’s clam chowder for lunch, too many saltines or oyster crackers dumped in the compostable bowl. Their dad will douse the fish ‘n’ chips in sour vinegar and the middle child will follow suit. 

Once we arrive to the island we’ll stop for groceries. Just the basics, just the staples of milk and bananas and eggs and coffee, then wind across the narrow strip of land. Leaving pavement, curving down a gravel-lined lane, slender sticks of evergreen trees reach to the pale sky. They look as if they could topple, bend at the whim of a strong gust, but they’re deceptively sturdy, roots diving deep to anchor. Like toothpicks they taper at the top, their branches fanned out, curved upward. Sometimes an eagle will rest on an upturned branch, as we all rush to observe the regal creature before it stretches its wings to take flight.

We unpack, get reacquainted with the comfortable surroundings. Giant windows and a spanning deck overlook the water below. Down a sharply steep path, dozens of stairs treacherously slick in mid-winter mossy dampness lead to the rocky beach. I like to sit above it all, the steely water below is calming; a constant motion that, strangely, evokes stillness. I wonder if the eagle feels the same; looking down from afar details are missed but the larger picture, the grandness of a distant perspective is captured.

Continue Reading

Free Write Friday: Snow Day

The kids gather their sleds, dusty in attics or basement corners, and head for the hill. An inch, maybe two, come each year, mid fall or late winter. Mismatched snow gear, the pants too small, the jacket gaping, the hat a hand-me-down from big sister, older cousin. 

Usually there’s a predawn session, heading out after a truncated breakfast, too excited to eat much, empty tummies rumbling in anticipation of the snowy day. Pink noses, rouged cheeks, they tread carefully in awkward snow boots. The silence is deafening after a bustling rainy day in the city. Neighbors smile at one another; everyone is off and out. 

The hill is just a slope, barely an incline. Even-earlier risers have already gotten some runs in, adults pulling their toddlers on plastic discs. The green betrays the locale, grass peeking through, causing a bumpy ride. Still, their faces alight with the novel sleekness, skidding down the street, slipping on familiar ground, sliding at the park. 

And after, hot chocolate warms tiny chapped hands, miniature marshmallows bobbing between the wisps of rising steam. It’s a little bit of true winter in the evergreen land. Northwesterners, unabashedly afraid of sleek ice, happily trade in their routine despite being ridiculed for closures. The freeze brings a warmth and the forced slowing in snowfall a welcome calm.

Continue Reading