Mark is standing on an outcropping of rock. Little islands, is what I
like to call them. He aims his lens at a group of seals that are playing
in the shallows among rocks isolated from us because of the water between.
His camera rests on three legs, and he, hunched into the lens, mesmerized
by the bird and surf and rock and water dogs that know how to play with
the sea....The seals never frantically fight the tide, as we do, to clamber
to solid ground. They know the wisdom of waiting, of cycles, of times
when it is just right, of times when there is nothing at all. They drift
in the tides, but the sea never takes them far, out to its open reaches.
They are continually pulled in and out, rubber-banding between the outcrops.
The sea knows they are playful and plays with them.
The spray, the mist rising from the sea - the sun that cuts through them
and leaves the outlying rocks and fjords a silhouette. Here, I live in
god's paradise, our goddess's garden, her favorite vacation.
I turn once and Mark has disappeared. The man that was beside him, looking
through binoculars is now approaching me, the seabirds fly as one, pounding
the rock I sit upon. The tide is moving in, shouting its presence with
its spray and slippery wake.
The sandpipers are of one mind. They think collectively. A wave approaches,
their wings form triangles, they are solid, forever a group. They run
in large herds, picking at the sand.
cape perpetua, oregon
© 1990 - 2003 Katharina Woodworth