Most of the tompostpile’s March has been “Japan”. I’m not done with Japan. I never will be. Sorting through the experience, and through the thousands of photos taken, will take a long time. The ‘pile will continue with “Japan” posts as reflection and rumination unfold.
Now that we are back where we came from, jetlag drags us towards sleep in the day and in the middle of night we suddenly wake, bright-eyed. And we are ready for “lunch”! Such is the price of a trip half-way around the world.
It’s a price I would gladly pay again.
Coquina was deliriously beside herself to have us return to her.
We were deliriously beside ourselves to have returned to her.
Now, we are resuming our “regular” lives.
Every year I attend to the annual work rituals of preparing “my” beaches for the sun-worshippers of summer. There are signs to make and install, path boards to place, rescue buoys to paint and place, footbridges and a walkway to repair, and drifted-in litter to collect. When the weather warms, there will be grass to mow.
It was time to get started.
The afternoon was foggy, with a hint of rain. I loaded up the truck with supplies, and set forth. The beach was a-blur with salt-laden fog. The air was full of gull calls and the surrounding marsh was as full with the song of the redwing blackbird. The marsh flooded deeply over the winter, deeper than I’ve seen it since 2012’s Superstorm Sandy. The ground squished underfoot and I switched from shoes to boots.
For the next while I worked on my first chore. I schlepped a truckload of wooden pallets to their positions on the summer path, over the raised walkway, going back and forth from parking lot to path, path to parking lot, the handtruck rattling as I went.
I used to carry all the pallets on my back.
Now I use the handtruck.
(Moving things is so much easier with wheels.)
Once the pallets were in place and the beach inspected, I shifted operations to location number two: Quansoo. Where the Great Pond and the ocean are periodically connected. The Pond had been opened while we were gone, and I was looking forward to seeing if the winter’s extra-high water level had cut an extra-deep channel.
Quansoo never fails. In the fog, colors were muted.
Halfway to the Opening I encountered a hauled-out seal, who was neither trusting nor socially inclined. It galumphed down the sand into the surf and disappeared in the waves.
I reached the opening. It was wide and deep.
The rush of exiting water exposes a cross-section of the beach’s profile.
On the Pond side, cycles of tidal fluctuation had left lines of dark material.
I followed the lines back to the truck.
I’ll bring another load down tomorrow morning.