My daughter and I took a walk down by the water last week,
unaware of a new moon working its magic by way of astronomical tides. Once in a while, the ocean draws back so far,
things you see all the time take on new appearances.
On one of my favorite walking routes in the next door town,
we look from the seawall to an immense hill of rock off shore, where a steel spike
waves an American flag. The banner is
always there, sometimes more tattered than others. I never gave much thought to how it is
maintained, assuming someone gets there by boat. But on the day of our walk,
the tide was so low, a long, straight, stone-strewn path led directly to it.
Given the right conditions (and trust me, January cold does
not offer them) we could have walked out to the granite monolith. Delighted it could be possible to “walk across
water” to visit a place we never thought to reach under our own power, afterwards
we drove to the beach in our own town.
There we saw a similar display…the tide so low a sandbar projected out
to a rock that up until that moment seemed completely off limits.
The next morning, she and I found ourselves back in our neighboring
town. There shops line the harbor and normally,
we look down from the parking lot to docks floating far below. A long steep gangway is the only way to get
down to them. After completing our
business, we headed back to the car when my daughter exclaimed, “Look at the
water!”
At first all I saw was a vast
puddle. It took a moment to realize the pool
was the ocean. Via the pull of the moon,
the water had risen to the level of the parking lot. With no wind or storm, it crept silently across
empty spaces toward the clump of cars parked in front of a restaurant,
including ours. My daughter checked her
I-phone and determined we had reached exact high tide. No worry for oblivious patrons munching on
eggs and omelets, the flood was about to turn.
Hopping into the car, we drove down roads threading through mirror
waters. The sea lapped at the side of the road.
Swamped marshes reflected a grey winter ceiling and still salt ponds reproduced
wrinkled images of resolute cottages guarding a barrier beach.
Perhaps folks who live right on the water see this degree of
transformation all the time. But as I thought of what we witnessed, I recognized two key things:
Goals that seem impossible
to reach often need nothing more than then a routine change of tide,
and,
Take a
breath when things seem ready to swamp you. After that, it's likely they'll recede.
