Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Low Tide

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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.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Beach Run

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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.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: California

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The light wanes as we step out of the hotel conference room, eyes blurry from hours of lectures, Powerpoint slides flashing, acronyms swirling, EKGs dancing. The sun has set but the purple light of dusk hovers in the sky. The moon is rising over the palm trees lining the street, thin stems with bushy tops, as if each were adorned with floppy wigs or jester’s caps. The air is cool but not cold in way the sky is shaded but not dark.

We make our way to the cove after dinner, can just discern the rough waves crashing onto the rock face. We want to feel the fine granules of sand between our toes, stow them home in our carry-on bags tucked away in our shoe soles and jean pockets.

We hear the seals before we see them, sharp intonations directed upward, all around. They squeal and shriek their protestation to our presence. We are intruders and suppliers, they must love and hate us. One seal beaches several yards away. We point and exclaim like paparazzi, eager to elevate the novel to a venerated plane.

***

The sand on the soles of my feet, the sudden coolness of the water washing over my toes, the Pacific wild in its winter norm, tame by the time it reaches the California shore.

People-watching is paramount along the walkway that winds parallel to the strip of sand. Surfers haul their boards under their arms as if the equipment is another appendage, wetsuits peeled to their waists, hair dripping to their shoulders. Rented bikes with fat tires and curved handlebars in candy coated colors weave in and out of pedestrian traffic. Tourists unsteady as they cycle, unsure on their winter legs in the foreign sunlight.

Twenty-something revelers pack the margarita bars, sipping slushy neon drinks in oversized goblets. They laugh easily, their cheeks crimson they lean into each other suggestively, throw their heads back into the bright sun. A girl in a green vest pulls a wagon filled with Girl Scout cookies, stacked Samoas and Thin Mints, boxes disappear into eager hands.

Umbrellas and beach towels dot the pale sandscape. Sunday afternoon revelers exult, even here, in a warmer than expected day. I close my eyes and see a glow, rouge-hot, yellow afire.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Cliff

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Note: This week I’m trying something new with the free write – a prose poem incorporating synesthesia. I was inspired by a Till writing workshop I recently attended, presented by poet Jane Wong. As always, feel free to use the photo above as a prompt for your own free write. Consider joining me in experimenting with an unfamiliar format this week. 

***

Crackling of palm tree, fronds brushing carmine in the breeze. Squawk and tweet of birdsong, just beyond ear’s reach, punctuating high above. The turquoise wash of crashing waves below, colliding onto ebony rocks stoic as the spray recoils, resorbed by the expanse. Memories of jumping off, sound muffled, then expanding beyond into the greater sea. I climb the cliff, handholds of familiar crevices. I swim into the current, decades of tracing the reef map a mind’s fingerprint of coral phalanges. Thick blades of grass underfoot infuse the yellow taste of papaya. Nenes swoop in, then saunter through air thick with humidity. Specks of snorkelers flap fins, return to lie beached, their skin leathered like dragon fruit. Cloud shadows caress the ridged mountains, marking them like a bruise, feeding them with rain. One drop, then two trickles. The sea turtles gulp the air then dive into dry sweetness. They disappear but I never saw them, only heard shells cracking from a memory decades old. Momentary waft of plumeria, ginger, coconut, lilikoi, banana leaves suspends in the air just long enough for it to roll on my tongue, breathe into my lungs, absorb through my skin leaving an imprint, marking me home. 

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