Summer morning

8:00 A.M. is not so very early on a summer morning, and yet there was no one on this long expanse of beach ... just me and the gulls and sanderlings and a few crows. At my feet lay ,the morning's arrangements of [now] stilllifes -- that shortly before were not still as the waves arranged them: the succulent, squishy fat seaweed, the deepest green and occasional strands that for reasons I do not know, are pure white, random shells, mostly broken, some entangled. And randomly the horseshoe crab shells that are washing up daily this time of year -- a connection to the world of the dinosaurs.
In quiet joy and peace I followed that beach all the way to the end where, the day before, I walked silently past a woman who had brought her towel and was doing yoga. She deserved her peace and aloneness and I tried not to intrude. If there is such a thing as tidescape, and I believe there is and surely someone makes a habit of painting or photographing it, it is an ever changing phenomenon that holds my attention every day. The freshly expelled shells are subtly pink or blue or shades of brown running to chalky white. Everything glistens with wetness.

By the time I was returning I noticed on the far horizon sails of several boats as if a regatta were in progress. Closer to shore, where the turning tide offered a nearly smooth surface, I saw again the paddle boarding women I saw a few days ago -- serenely floating as they gently propelled themselves across the bay toward just a little in front of where the top photo was taken. Nearer to me many of the local gull flock were taking their morning rest on this jumble of rocks which are entirely covered by water when the tide is high. The only sounds were occasional gulls and crows.

Never Boring

Not the same old, same old -- I go to the same place to walk most mornings, but even when I'm half in reverie about something that's on my mind, I notice new things. This morning, from a distance I saw what I thought was a couple of kayaks pulled up on the beach of the creek side of the spit of land I walk on. No one was around -- not unusual, people often walk over the low dune for a dip in the ocean. Before I reached the spot five women walked from the ocean side. All had on fat gray life jackets over bathing suits. They were middle aged but athletic looking. [None looked like the above picture of Kate Hudson, I don't think any of them own bikinis - Hey, this is Cape Cod, not California!] They pulled their boats into the water -- one was obviously a leader or instructor -- and I saw that they were actually paddle boards and that paddles were different than kayak paddles.

I had seen one or two people in the ocean on afternoon visits to the beach on paddle boards but this was my first up close encounter. It looked like something I would enjoy. They pushed off into the quiet, very shallow water, kneeling for a while, and then, when they felt balanced, they stood and paddled on up the creek. I thought of taking a photo but felt shy of doing so. I realized that time is probably against me and actually I could not do this. My once broken hip is well healed but has left me without strength in that hip to rise gracefully from a kneeling position. Darn! Not that I'm about to go out an buy a paddle board or find someone giving lessons. It's just an irksome realization. They looked peaceful moving slowly along, reminiscent of gondoliers or the people who poled me and others through the marshes in Okavango Delta a couple years ago in light, shallow boats, where we moved amidst reeds and water lilies. I envied the five women and loved having seen them.