Let me zoom in and enhance the blues. Now can you see?
Our friends from NYC were dressed for the weather but not for a swim.
The waves were coming in fast. The wide sandbar from minutes ago was gone.
Boulders sunk into islands.
My dog charged ahead into the water. She wasn’t swimming . . . yet.
Maybe it was the adrenaline or the time lag of seasonal change, but the water didn’t feel too cold until we got out, dripping to our knees. It was a “warm” day but still close to freezing.
After one year abroad in England, we had forgotten four rules about Maine:
- Only cross in an ebbing tide (ie when the water is going out, not coming in.)
- Do not assume that the beach and the tides will be the same from year to year.
- You can’t always get there from here.
- Don’t be an effing idiot.
This year the tide has gone crazy, and the beach has been eroding faster than ever. Had we been much slower, we would have had to wait until after nightfall for the next low tide. Cell phones rarely work on this remote beach in Phippsburg.
Our footprints were washing away. Amazingly Marika didn’t hold a grudge.
My remorse was tainted by inspiration. As the others fretted over wet feet and then laughed, I was skipping one book ahead. What would happen if I sent two characters out to that island, and they couldn’t come back? Novel writing is risky business.