When we drove home from a family party in the middle of a
thunderstorm Saturday night, it didn’t occur to me that Sunday would be a “Church of the Jetty” day, but it should have. Lightning flickered purple over the
highway, thunder bashed overhead, and window-wipers flogging back and forth
struggled to keep up. But when I woke at
6:30 in the morning, it was clear as the blue sky outside my window that the
storm had cleaned things out. An hour
later, after brewing coffee, we stopped for bagels and headed to the harbor. As we tiptoed by, the same way it happens each time we do this, the summer church service taking place on the porch of the new sailing club
began. Down at the docks I sang along
with the first hymn.
I wish I knew the words to tell you how open and bright a
clear a summer morning can be on the low-tide harbor. Everything is white and vivid and sweeping,
almost as if the world has grown larger. As if the light has moved inside you. We anchored on the flats and pulled up the
boat. Egrets and seagulls picked through
the mud as my husband scrubbed off the slime that accumulates on the sides of
the dinghy. Toward the east, the water
sparkled. The sun glinted off a tilted
panel out on Minot’s light. Rowing crews
parted the sea, leaving a V’s in their wake and a couple slogged through the
low water, dragging their boat behind.
One lone fisherman took a last sideways cast, before pulling up anchor
and trundling away.
In the end, we didn’t walk the jetty. We stood below it, circling, flipping over
shells bleached white by the sun, watching the
gulls and the terns, listening to the gurgle as the tide rolled in over the sand. But
through it all, the jetty was there, hulking behind us, an altar of sorts, blessing
our morning while standing guard over a perfect view.