tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58620045853888633592024-03-12T16:55:48.262-07:00Sea to Shining SeaLogbook for the occasional marinerUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-65303757574718292702011-04-21T07:23:00.001-07:002011-04-21T07:30:40.709-07:00Remembering last year in the Gulf of Mexico<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Black smoke billows up from the silver surface of the sea. Firefighters on ships send water cannons high. Eleven men are dead. Oil gushes into the Gulf as eons of pressure release. Deepwater drilling disaster.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As ocean dwellers we must do something, we must bear witness. Open our eyes to what could be lost, to the beauty we had. We need to be there, to take the pulse of the Gulf. To feel it beating and embrace what is still alive, look with new eyes at our third sea, our much-insulted coast. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finding a berth and a ship is not easy, when half the fleet is tied up for safety and the other half is on contract to BP. Hired hands are towing booms, ferrying tyvek-covered workers to the scene of the crime. Finally we find our ship, donated in part and brought in from afar like the clean-up vessels on offer from around the world to the US government. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chaos reigns and each day the news and rules of engagement change. We apply for permits, ID cards, and study small engine repair. Now you must sign here, pay here, report for official cleaning, and now you must clean your own ship, fill out more forms, produce passports and documentation. Like a war zone, security is in place though the officers turn over weekly and their high-tech equipment seems somehow inadequate to the task. Both the government and BP are out in force and yet clearly not in charge, not in control.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Across the water we meet cleaning vessels, coast guard ships, fellow witnesses, passing with the briefest of communications, unable to ask the question, why are we here? What can we do? Most strangely, most overwhelmingly, we encounter business as usual. We are astonished by the quiet normalcy, the vastness of the Gulf and how quietly it assumes this latest in a relentless tide of insults. There is a need, a survivor’s instinct to muffle the sounds, to continue moving forward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We are surrounded by a skeleton city of steel rigs, tended by drones who shuttle between them like Soviet-era space ships. The sea feels hollow here, merely a container for oil and yet when we drop divers, our robot, a camera, the sea stars skitter by. Feathery worms reach up from the sand to catch their supper and corals sway, rocking the fish to sleep in the night lit by flames.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">All is well and yet, not quite right. In the vastness, in the quiet, beneath the jumping dolphins that appear daily at our bow, lies a brown slime, lie ghosts of the animals who sink to the bottom when they die. Like missing children, they can not be counted but we go through the motions anyway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Buffeted by weather and logistics, we work our way through each room of this Gulf of Mexico home, counting heads among the fish, birds, dolphins, manatees, workers and homemakers, citizens of this place. We comb the sky with binoculars and post letters from this other world, reporting on its beauty.<span style=""> </span>We visit marshes, reefs, fields of seagrass and open water. Healthy tarpon and hogfish swim among us. Glittering sea fans and glowing sponges reach out with soft tendrils.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When we dock in port we buy batteries and soda, magazines for the crew. We fill up on the same fuel that fills the Gulf. We pass the empty office of the BP customer service center. We talk to shopkeepers, bartenders, marina owners, fishermen. Their anger is reserved, this is not their first war. Most seem to be waiting for an unknown. For compensation? For answers? For time to pass? For the full impacts to be known?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We immerse special strips that are microscopic sponges, to absorb the oil we can not see and track its advance across unfathomable depths. We find evidence of oil persisting in the Gulf despite early claims that there’s nothing to see, that we should call off the search. We bring cameras and notepads, nets and tags, ears and eyes. We record everything, the survivors and the life untouched. We bring in others to bear witness. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">From South Florida around the rim of the Gulf to Tampa, Pensacola, Gulfport, New Orleans and then back. At the beach when we arrive sunbathers lie on vacation. They buy trinkets and read the news and sigh over their drinks. It’s a shame but really, what is to be done? In a way they have a point, these events unfolded long ago when greed pushed the drills deeper and deeper. Addicted, we pushed blindly beyond mistakes, beyond our rescuers, until April 20, when the whole thing blew. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now we stand looking, asking why, asking who and what was it all for. Again a year later, the question is asked. What is right? Is it time to drill again? Who can say?<span style=""> </span>We can say no and we remember. The largest oil spill in US history happened in the Gulf. It’s not the first time, nor is it the last time until we say no, until we take on the work of change, of clean energy, of the future.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-39677644675835404052009-05-23T21:16:00.000-07:002009-05-23T22:09:42.447-07:00Dania Beach, Florida<span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">How could I forget my first love? To swim, just swim in the ocean with no need for fancy equipment. <br /><br />I drive directly to the beach after landing in Fort Lauderdale. A dive shop appears on the left, and after brief consultation with its Peruvian manager I learn of ample freediving and snorkeling opportunities all along the coast. I've always wanted to go to Peru but he prefers the warm water and weather of Florida. Unfortunately at the moment the wind is up and visibility poor. Onward I drive blindly in search of a place to jump in, arriving at Dania Beach.<br /><br /></span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">Too warm in long pants worn for air conditioning, </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">I crest the dune for a peek b</span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">efore paying to park. Red and blue flags over the lifeguard tower warn of jellyfish and hazardous conditions. I call up to the tower and a bronzed figure emerges from its shade. He explains that while jellyfish are rare, it's the rip current that people have problems with. It sounds like I could still go for a swim in the right section of beach. I'm not sure how to respond to his question, "What are you here for?" I just want to be in the water.<br /><br />After a quick change and lathering of sunblock, I return to size up the waves. </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">Sunbathers doze in folding chairs with stunted legs. </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">Frothy sand-filled water marks the rip current shooting straight to the Bahamas from the base of the lifeguard tower. I wade in downshore, shuffling my feet </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">as I used to do in San Diego </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">to evade stingray encounters. </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">With freediving fins and a brand-new mask, I happily cruise out through the breakers, </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">my arms outstreched like the prow of a small flexible boat, my frame rising and falling with the surge.<br /><br />The tawny lifeguard climbs down to go for a swim break and we chat about ocean pastimes. He grew up far inland, until the day he decided to drive to Florida. Here he took up surfing, swimming, became a lifeguard, and now spends his days at Dania Beach. We swim short laps back and forth, crawl and backstroke. He is surprised I can keep up. I'm not in shape for swimming, yet a muscle memory lingers and that same dogged rhythm </span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">returns for short stretches with</span></span><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content"> steady technique cultivated back in high school. And the fins help a lot.<br /><br />A handful of surfers struggle with uneven, criss-crossing waves. The lifeguard bodysurfs back in and I wait a long time for the perfect wave. It comes and I miss it. Behind is a second wave that I catch with quick flailing arms, then head down in the foam for a short ride. When the biggest waves crash, I duck behind and beneath them to skim above rippling sand before emerging again in quiet water. In peaceful troughs I float on my back and stare at the sky in disbelief, savoring the sheer simple pleasure of being. Immersed in the ocean that I love, I remember her again with a mixture of gratitude and guilt for having forgotten.<br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-11728912464745957532009-04-10T10:26:00.000-07:002009-04-10T10:48:04.125-07:00Rehoboth, DelawareWe pull up at beach after beach, shopping in the way that surfers do, comparing the waves at each break along the Delaware shore. At the first stop I brace myself for disappointment, trying to lower my expectations since I have heard little positive about surfing the US east coast other than North Carolina.<br /><br />Cresting the path over the dunes, I am surprised by the waves. They steadily pelt the sand, regularly spaced, too close to shore but curling nicely. We move on in search of a more forgiving place to surf our kayaks for the first time. Yet the second beach looks meaner, the waves crashing in even shallower water. I envision being thrown into the sand with my kayak on top of me. We move on, driving all the way around to the north entrance of Henlopen State Park.<br /><br />Roof racks, surfboards, and people in hooded wetsuits let us know that this is the spot as soon as we reach the parking lot. We dress nervously for the cold water, still frigid beneath the bright sun. I walk to the bluff for a glimpse of the seal-like surfers hopping waves by the jetty and my stomach flutters. Is this really a good idea? These boats are for whitewater and rivers, not meant for beatdowns in the sand.<br /><br />We paddle out, helping each other launch before easily pushing past the zone of crashing waves to the gentle swells beyond. With the exception of a few poorly timed waves hitting me hard in the gut, paddling out in a kayak is much easier than on a surfboard. After waiting a while the next wave curls invitingly, "What are you waiting for? Got something better to do?" and I paddle hard. Two strokes, the kayak grabs the wave and we are off, front surfing, carving, magic.<br /><br />Later on, I find that the boat surfs just as well with or without me. I flip forward and hang upside down as the boat continues in towards shore undeterred. The washing machine is fiercer than I remember from regular surfing. Eventually things get quiet. Finally I roll up and catch my breath in the shallows before paddling out.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-39051214698566986312009-02-25T19:11:00.000-08:002009-05-23T22:16:50.531-07:00Oakland, CaliforniaEarly morning on the canal by Jack London Square, a clear blue sky opens an unseasonably hot spell. We stroll down the boardwalk of a rough neighborhood gone condo. Mostly. From the waterfront the riots of a few days past are unseen, unheard, though their imprint remains.<br /><br />The contrast of this pale pearl-colored water is so stark, the soft clinking movements of boats in the marina so dispassionate, the dogs so mundane on their walks before their owners scurry to work. At the edge, brown ducks dive among sawed-off pilings. The half-submerged cylinders are bone-white and dislocated without the dock that must have been. Closer to the square, kayaks lie stacked in the sun, heavy machinery lies unmanned on a new hotel site, and even the sun seems to hold its breath as it rises.<br /><br />On the other side of town, we walk to Lake Merritt, brimming with birds and the mussels they pluck from shallow brine. Not a freshwater lake but an inlet of San Francisco bay, its boundaries are ringed by grass and a paved path streams steadily with walkers circumnavigating its several-mile loop. At one end a personal trainer pitches his services for two bucks, standing at attention between weights and a fitness ball. At another, winter greens grow in cordoned-off community plots. The least hospitable stretch narrows to unadorned concrete with cars rushing by. <br /><br />Yet flowing water and the constant movement of wings proclaim peace, an oasis among urban violence and noise. Tall trees reach across the grass, a homeless man wakes, and seven television news vans line up in a row, antennae extended for more bad news.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-75938389738283821542009-01-05T13:48:00.000-08:002009-02-25T19:11:26.701-08:00St. Lawrence Seaway, MontrealMontreal is a long way inland for an island surrounded by salt water. A petite mountain covered in snow, the city in January shimmers with light for scant hours each day. Warmly dressed pedestrians fill the streets undeterred. And yet, on New Year's eve at negative thirty celsius, the plaza fills with people and fiddles fill the air, amplified voices carrying across the harbor. Chunks of ice shift. Sleeping fish stir in the mud, awaiting spring.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-79835179361956797262008-12-16T13:47:00.000-08:002009-05-23T22:27:40.345-07:00Patagonian Fjords, at the far end of the AmericasCathedrals of Yosemite granite stretch above our heads, covered by lush temperate rainforests to rival the Amazon. Here in Southern Chile and below these icy waters lie coral gardens rarely seen by human eyes. Eight hours of the droning motor finally carries our small boat beyond the clouding influence of rivers and glaciers, and we slip into the fjord for a dive with high hopes.<br /><br />What seems like a layer of dust carpets the first few meters of dead mussel shells, the fringes of a nearly vertical ecosystem. Farther down we cross terraces formed by the advance and retreat of glaciers in the recent geologic past. Still deeper a garden awaits, individual flowers spaced across pink coralline paint that grows like wallpaper all across a smooth diagonal stone floor (or is it a wall?). Each flower a coral, or sponge, or waving arms of a sea cucumber in yellow, pink, orange and white. Furtive movements skirt my peripheral vision as harlequin-painted shrimp and slender fish preen before scurrying past.<br /><br />From above all is hidden by a thick surface layer of accumulated rain. Glaciers greet the ocean with sediment, milky and opaque. Great rivers add their own contributions moss, tree drippings and leavings from the village upstream. A village wary of frigid, powerful currents, where scant few catch a glimpse of the living seafloor.<br /><br />And so this garden grows in secret, visited rarely by fishermen and frequently by seabirds. Bone-like fans and solitary sea whips arch to face the current. Oversized hermit crabs roam the floor in gaudy purple gloves. Algae spread slowly all the while, drinking dim sunlight as it trickles toward the deep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-38668631531760617712008-08-24T14:01:00.000-07:002008-12-16T13:46:41.627-08:00Ozette and the Olympic CoastThe bright grey morning calls me awake, softly, with muffled waves below my perch. I am careful not to move suddenly, in a lone sleeping bag wrapped in nylon on top of a high bluff on the beach. It's not strictly recommended to sleep here, in just barely enough square footage to lie down before the grass drops off steeply to piled driftwood and 360 degrees views of the ocean and temperate rainforest of the Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary. But with good weather and cautious intentions, I slept peacefully under the stars.<br /><br />A quick scan with the binoculars reveal a mother otter and her pup breaking their fast with shellfish, immediately below the bluff. For hours they perform on the stage below, diving, eating, floating, and playing among the fronds of kelp; a daily ballet of parent and child. When the mother dives, the pup ducks its head below, though its buoyant fur prevents true immersion. Next the pup mimics cracking mussels on rocks, or to be specific it's not sure exactly what the mother otter is doing but waves its paws as the first step. Eating the fruit of these labors is of course is no problem, and both otters happily breakfast together on the kelp forest's bounty.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-4804300553175369712007-12-18T08:55:00.000-08:002007-12-18T09:34:34.446-08:00Morehead City, North Carolina"A huge fish just came in, I'm not sure what it is..." and so a giant bluefin arrives at the dock outside Morehead's Sanitary restaurant. They say the season has started slowly in North Carolina but the grins on the crew's faces and their foul weather gear smeared in blood speak for themselves. The tall white boat with an open deck and fixed rods for reeling in giants has clearly been here before.<br /><br />This time, the biggest bluefin tuna lies stiff on a heap of ice, shining with two rows of triangles top and bottom. In overcast light, the headless 400-pound fish is pushed, shoved, and hauled onto a stretcher-like tarp which allows it to be moved by four men with great difficulty up to the dock and across to a waiting pick-up truck that arrived only minutes ago.<br /><br />Someone slips on the wet gunwhale and their leg is briefly caught between the fish and the dock. The leg seems tiny. It's hard to imagine being attached to such a large animal by a thin plastic line as it fights the hook and and swims for its life. A handful of admirers have spilled from the Sanitary restaurant to train digital cameras on the scene. The air is jubilant. Though no money has yet changed hands, this single fish could be worth thousands of dollars. If it's been handled right and can be sold for sushi, that figure increases by a power of ten.<br /><br />Two more tuna half its size lie waiting. Even the largest catch today is hardly full-grown for a species that easily boasts 1000 pounds and circles the ocean during in its annual migrations. The bluefin tuna is a powerful, warm-blooded, swimming machine that we are only beginning to appreciate through satellite tagging and other hi-tech research that is gives a window to their lives on a planetary scale.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-40494850115058770882007-12-18T08:45:00.000-08:002008-01-05T19:53:14.884-08:00Myrtle Beach, South CarolinaShag on the Strand (SOS) swept through Myrtle Beach again this fall, as it has every year for a generation or two. Beach music played too loud, smiling faces with a little too much make-up, and off-season hotels filled for a solid week of dancing. And these people can dance. The loafers, the bermuda shorts, the tight white pants aren't as flattering as they used to be, but the hips still swing and the feet know how to hover.<br /><br />While the road behind is an unremarkable mess of concrete and neon, the nighttime lap of waves on soft sand remains. Buildings have sprung up along the beachfront but are mostly low-rise, bordered by snow fencing along cresting dunes here and there. Perhaps only the beach itself looks as bright, as sparkling as the original Shag craze of the 1940s and 50s.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-4931705033697848622007-09-11T09:12:00.000-07:002009-05-23T22:32:37.066-07:00Port Townsend, WashingtonThe damp flannel landscape feels like home, welcoming me back to Washington State for a friend's wedding. Smooth granite dinner rolls cover North Beach slide beneath our feet. Large trees reach sideways to the surf, their outstretched fingers bathed by small ripples, grasping and simultaneously letting the water go.<br /><br />As we walk to the lighthouse, graying tones of blue, pink, white, and brown paint the sky. The distance seems fixed and the time does not pass as we trail behind a dog chasing imaginary birds. Some of the birds are real but so far ahead and unconcerned that his pursuit is imaginary if not his prize.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-61382872104334254752007-07-06T20:59:00.002-07:002007-07-06T21:18:05.440-07:00Monterey, CaliforniaSummer fog hugs the coast. Kelp dresses the sea surface and sea otters frolic at its edge. Two otters roll and toss together, chasing, playing, or flirting it's hard to tell. Cormorants perch on a lone rock. The cormorants dry their wings to avoid the cold. The otters groom for the same reason, and float high in the water on dense fur (a million hairs per inch).<br /><br />We pedal down Cannery Row and spot a sleek head poking up from the waves. After scanning the water and pressing up against the fence, one or the other of us suddenly recognizes the fifty or a hundred prone shapes below, an entire haul-out covered with seals. Impossible to miss once you notice them.<br /><br />Late that night I open the window, fresh air for my roommate and the rumbling drums of waves to bring sleep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-42343728257305197862007-07-06T20:43:00.001-07:002008-01-05T19:53:37.705-08:00Key WestKey West, Florida. Though one could argue that the Keys are only precariously attached to Florida. Driving in the shuttle, we skim along heavily bulkheaded not-quite-land and someone asks the unspoken, "Does any of this really survive a hurricane?" It is explained that the rip rap has just been replaced.<br /><br />Diving among placid tarpon, we go with a charter to the protected Western Sambo section of the Florida National Marine Sanctuary. I'm sure I never knew how large a tarpon was, how shiny their silver plates. They seem to know fishing's not allowed here.<br /><br />Drinking at the end of the continent, we sit by the beach with all the pink midwesterners, all the armed services, and are served by Conch residents. Our divemaster explains why he stopped drinking: it's too easy to do nothing other than drink, when really you could be doing nothing other than being on the water, enjoying the ocean.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-39634729888971223842007-07-06T20:07:00.000-07:002009-05-23T22:42:20.598-07:00Coastal GeorgiaCoastal Georgia is an ode to wetlands and a gift of grace. And yes, of all the ocean places on my regular circuit, it's in the top tier. Last year was my first visit to the Jekyll Island Club, among former homes of the Northeast elite, Rockefellers, Goodyears and others famous to those who pay attention to such things. The fishing dock nearby is crowned by a raw bar, the actual shrimp boats run off years ago by this high-end crowd.<br /><br />Yet late evening still brings a magenta glow to the sheltered water, black tree shadows cast against the glass surface. A friend and I walk beneath the branches of sweet gum and palmetto draped in spanish moss. We tell stories and drink the cool March air.<br /><br />This is an island where only a few minutes bring my rented bike and me to the beach, to don a wetsuit, float around in the water and amuse the locals. It's really very cold water this time of year so if you live here most folks feel like there's no reason to go in. And so I swim alone on my back, watching terns glide and sandpipers pace with a stiletto gait.<br /><br />Another night, I wander from our picnic towards two boys fishing from the pier. Flashes of light peak through the boards. We gaze across water ringed by grasses. Something breaks the surface and I can't quite believe it. A dolphin, and then a second smaller dolphin play and approach the pier. Could a baby dolphin really be playing with its mother just like this, just a typical evening in this magical place?<br /><br />On my second visit to Jekyll, a friend lends me full sea kayaking gear. She narrates a scenic drive around the island with local politics, land use history, kayaking tips, and instructions for the next morning's launch. With a cheery wave I thank them, preparing to rise early the next day and squeeze in a quick exploration before the trip home.<br /><br />I haul the boat down wet sand under grey skies. Wind and a light chop carry me forward, as I note how important it will be to leave time for the return paddle. Along the shoreline there are mud channels, thick reeds in british racing green, and dense oyster banks that scrape against my paddle. Fingers grow numb, and the herons stay just far enough ahead of my slow progress. Osprey swoop, far-off coastline shows itself around the corner.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-4929958438825526852007-02-13T18:32:00.000-08:002011-10-14T12:37:16.485-07:00Gulfport, MississippiFirst encounter with the sea this year begins with an airplane conversation with a local retiree. "Where should I go if I have time in Gulfport?" He recommends driving south along interstate 10, at least if I want to "see the destruction" of 2005 hurricanes, Katrina and Rita. And so I trace the asphalt strip, level to the ground and stretching flat on either side between the water and a string of buildings with no first floor. Or rather, with beams-only fully-gutted first floors. The most disquieting characteristic of the floodwater damage is how perfectly intact many upper floors were. Looking upwards the view is of any beachfront strip of mansions, condominiums, community buildings, single-family homes. Perhaps a high number of newly constructed places with the Tyvek paper covering still exposed. Yet at ground level it's clear that it's a ghost town, uninhabited and slowly rebuilding one year after. On the water side a string of oversized road signs proclaiming businesses of which there are few if any signs of the establishments themselves, a waffle house, a mexican restaurant.<br /><br />The white sand beach and the water itself breathe peace. I pull over and balance across a large conveyance, walking towards a large group of gulls. The birds rise, circling overhead. The water is cold to the touch, clear to its pebble-shell collection a few inches deep. Ridiculously shallow and calm, at least to the eyes of someone accustomed to other seas, to surf and crashing waves. Undeniably peaceful.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-57364521046250142282007-02-13T18:31:00.001-08:002007-02-13T18:31:53.172-08:00Puget SoundLast year ended with a glimpse of Puget Sound between buildings, under the gray light of Seattle winter. Still waters released memories with the dull shimmer of past night dives among octopus dens.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5862004585388863359.post-62265546035857536622007-01-29T19:40:00.001-08:002008-02-13T14:15:06.878-08:00Blue time<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-family:trebuchet ms;" >At the moment I live far from striking distance of the salt sea spray, which is good for my bicycle chain if not so good for me. Yet there are many moments, days, when I travel there still. Here is a place to collect and reflect on these blue hours, a shoebox of re-memories of time in, on, under, and near the ocean.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0