On The Penultimate Morning Of August

Yesterday, just before nine AM, I dropped off two grandchildren at “Kayak Camp”.  It was a near perfect day, although the perfectionist would consider whether to give one quarter of a demerit to the slightly overenthusiastic southwest wind, which gave a slight chill to the air.  Life-vest-swaddled children schooled about on the shore, waiting to paddle and splash.

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One grandson tested the relationship between paddle, tennis ball, and sand.

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I loitered nearby for a while, and then crossed the road and went under the bridge.

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From there I could see paddleboards and kayaks set off with cargoes of kids.

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In the shadowed space underneath the bridge I hopped along the granite boulders that edge the bridge abutment, and paused to enjoy the change of surroundings. Suddenly the sky was gone, and small sounds were amplified. Rhythmic splashing announced a group of small waves advancing against the flow of the incoming tide.  Small crests passed into the sunlight, and dissipated.

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I don’t know what the bridge designers were thinking when they decided to make a fake rock pattern in the concrete. But they did. What an odd juxtaposition against the real rock of riprap.

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The launchings finished, and the children paddled away.

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“See you at one!”, I called.

 

 

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