Every once in a while salt air sends a subtle invite through the breeze and we RSVP with this: We’re on our way. We’ll be there in an hour or so.
It took a bit longer than an hour today, but finally we arrived, parked where we weren’t permitted, and followed the path.
Low tide greeted us with all the beach’s layers revealed.
Streamlets flowed forth from our feet to the ocean beyond.
Rounded driftwood carved impressions in the sand.
Waves broke with gentle crests as the tide rolled out.
Water created trees accented with driftwood leaves.
Colors summoned dune-like illusions with visions of water serving as potential mirages.
And then we found a set of tracks.
They led to and danced around a clean plate.
And a diner who celebrated with a song all his own.
There were others, their feathers all a’flutter.
And a few released that showed the pattern of their minute barbs.
My guy and I, though we weren’t the only people on the beach, for stretches felt as if we had the world to ourselves.
While we walked, he paused occasionally to gather some golf balls. (Note: If he tries to sell you one, sniff it first. If it smells like salt, you may want to reconsider–unless it will help your game, of course.)
My souvenir was a link to my mother, who would have collected the same and this piece of seaglass will find a home with those she and I both gathered.
At last, we reached our turn-around point–at the jetty beside the Saco River’s outlet. We know the northern part of the river intimately, but where the brackish water forms as freshwater joins salt, our understanding is less familiar.
It’s been a while since we’ve actually celebrated a Mondate, so it certainly seemed apropos to find a heart in the sand. And to follow my father’s advice long ago to fill the innermost recesses of our lungs with salt air. We did so.
As we enjoyed a change of pace and a change of scenery.