Daniel and I had *plans* for Thursday; we were going to Seattle to meet up with some activist friends we've been working with, mostly online, for the past few years. We had plans for a baby-sitter in place, we had a back-up plan, we were going to be free as birds between about half past three and any-time-we-got-in. It was going to be fun. It was going to be energizing.
And, apparently, it was going to be cancelled.
But I'm not one to cancel a sitter just because my PLANS fell through! NO WAY!
So Emma came over at half past three, I cooked up some mac & cheese for her and the progeny, got my knitting, and Daniel and I went out for a walk to MuCurdy Point, which is the sticking-out-of-North-Beach bit that you get to if you go left (or west, I suppose).
If you go right (or east) you get to the Point Wilson Lighthouse, and if you go south along the beach from there you'll pass the Marine Science Center and Chetzamoka Park on the way to Point Hudson, which is at the west end of Water Street.
We turned left, or went west, and kept going.
The tide was incredibly low. I've taken that left turn on days when there were only about three meters of beach to walk on. Yesterday, there were about sixty, with the shore consisting of what had formerly been an underwater neighborhood. Medium to biggish rocks (a meter across) were home to colonies of dozens of clams, tightly shut and nestled into their crooks and crannies. The husked hulls of crabs that had been dropped by the birds dotted the sand.
The birds pretty well dotted the sand, too, if you can imagine a heavily dotted rock and sand surface. Crows and seagulls were heavy on the first bit, cormorants stood on rocks a bit further on (the crows thinned out, by then), and an eagle (or someone who looked a lot like an eagle) was up on a tree, on the bluffs above the water. A blue heron flew alongside us a while, then went into the water.
Oh, I mentioned the bluffs. At first, they were climbable, at least if you ignore the NO TRESPASSING KEEP OUT signs. As we wested they grew and towered, until they reminded me of nothing more than walking in NYC. A sort of one-sided canyon, with the sea to my right. Some of the bluffs were straight up-and-down sand or clay. Others had kinder slops, with colonies of trees trying to hang on along them, and sometimes failing. The downslipped trees rested on the strand, dead or dying after repeated salt-water tide drenchings. Spring flowers bursted sporadically out of the slopes, and partially rusted vehicles were up along them, in fairly unreasonable places. How do you get the dead hull of a car to sit 100 meters above the ground, on a near-vertical bluff?
We pressed on, following the curve of the beach and picking up the occasional bauble of beach glass. Only really big ones, yesterday - we left the tiny slivers of amber and green and cobalt blue for later walkers. Some rocks were egg-shaped and egg-sized, bright orange in the late afternoon light. Others were shiny jet or jade in the water, fading to a matted shade when dry.
There was no lack of water, though. A gentle rain came with us around the curves. Very gentle - think of a mist just turning coalescing, a humidity hovering at the point of condensation.
Rock patterns are fascinating, at very low tide. There were pools of sand between lakes of bigger rocks - ranging from about the size of an apple to a generous skein of yarn, but harder and more solid. Some bits of beach were covered with flat seaweed, greens and pinks and ochres. Stepping on them made sloshing sounds, and had a faintly soggy feeling. He of us who wore socks and sandals got his toes wet. She who protected her feet with closed sneakers stayed nice and dry. At least, dry *in* the sneakers.
Several fallen - slidden? - trees blocked the way around to the point, and I'd have waited behind them rather than go over, under, or around their woody bodies, still with branches and needles (albeit looking rather green), but Daniel walked around the point and came back to tell me that it was really worth the extra effort.
And it was. Around McCurdy Point you can see Protection Island, which happened to be under a holy cloud (you know, a cloud with holes in it). Seven or eight distinct rays of nearly-setting sun poured through the fluffy cloud, over a tree-topped island set amidst the Puget Sound, with Canada a pale ghost in the background and my side of the water (the rest of the Quimper and Olypmic Peninsulas, kind of near the Straits of San Juan) stretching our around them.
Stunningly gorgeous, much?
