Yesterday we went exploring our new home on this small island, following the roads at random. We saw private homes with private beaches and their own private docks lined up in orderly fashion along the coast. Then, tucked in like an afterthought, was a public boat launch: above the high tide mark a small strip of grass, a few picnic benches, a parking lot and a cement ramp running down into the water. The place smelled of salt water, fish and seaweed.
And I loved it, it reminded me of summers spent on the beach in Southern California digging my toes into the fine, hot sand, the sun baking my skin to the just-right tint of surfer tan, and that eau de beach, a special scent one gets only near the ocean.
But unlike the crowded beaches of my childhood, this coastal stretch was nearly vacant. At low tide, it became our own private beach. The coast was deserted, 
with only a few empty boats docked along the way. We played on the wet sand, found lots of shells both occupied and empty. Big empty crab shells. Small bivalves -- oysters or mussels?
How fascinating to watch a shellfish open his shell just a fraction of an inch, slip the tip of an appendage out and then pull it back in and close up when he senses danger. Or to see the birds pick up similar shells, soar up high and then drop them on the rocks. At first it looked like they were playing some strange game, but then we realized they were cracking the shell to get to the fish inside.
High overhead, an eagle flew. Like a feudal lord overseeing his lands, he observed, called out some commands, and flew on.
Then suddenly, and faster than I ever saw in Southern California, the tide came in. Wave after wave, unrelenting, each advancing the tide line by an inch or more. Before one wave could recede, the next was coming in, chasing us further and further up the shore. Soon our magical land was transformed once again into a public place and we left with only our photos and souvenirs to remind us of an unexpected adventure.
August 2010