We wake to the wren bleating outside our window. The sun reflects pink off the pine trees crowding our back—a soft breeze brushes the blooming hydrangea against our first-floor screens.
It’s early. Robins skitter across the back yard and pause, cocking their heads before plunging their beaks into the earth. A hummingbird zips between the bugle petals of the fat-leafed Hostas. We wash our faces, fill a thermos with fresh brewed coffee, drive to the bagel shop for warm-from-the-oven treats, and head to the harbor. There, we toss life jackets into the dinghy and stream forward through swaying boats, to the barrier beach from which a long jetty juts into mouth of our harbor. Anchoring the boat, we grab our supplies and stone-step to the end of the wall where a rectangular granite slab acts as a seat.
Around us, morning gears up. Seagulls argue on the mudflats forming in front of the low tide beach. An aged motor boat pulling a tin dinghy passes by, a woman sits on the bow—arms wrapped around her knees, face tilted toward the sun. Across the water, the clean lines of a handcrafted sailboat bob in front of a stone boat house. The tide recedes, exposing barnacles suctioned to sea green rocks. Terns dive and flit at the water’s edge. Over our shoulders, the sand bar shimmers in the early light, and though I’ve done so on so many occasions, I put down my coffee and rustle in my pocket for the camera, desperate to capture this essence of summer.
Most Sundays, we attend early church. Once in a while though, we seek the blessings supplied by what we call “The Church of the Jetty.”
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| July 8, 2012 |
