High Tide and Low Tide

            Our cottage sits on a tidal bay, a thumb, if you imagine Dabob Bay as an open hand, one of many large bays on Hood Canal.  Thirty years ago we looked every summer for a low-bank waterfront property we could afford, and curiously settled for a tiny cottage on Quilcene Bay where there is water in front of us for only half of the day.  Summers, when the sun warms the tidal flats to swimming temperatures, we are “tied” to the tide book.  No matter what tasks we are doing, we stop to run through the open gate and plunge in for a swim, push out in a kayak. or balance on a paddle board as soon as a chart in that book registers eight feet or more.                   Winters, the high tides can exceed 13 feet, and when married to high winds, the sea trespasses, often knocking out the gate with a floating log, white caps swamping our lawn.

Before purchasing this waterfront property, I lived blissfully unaware of the moon and the tides.  I didn’t think about highs and lows, not to mention high low tides and low high tides, abbreviated by locals as High Lows and Low Highs.   This morning my husband looked through the window as the tide seemed to inhale from the shoreline, revealing mud flats gleaming in the early morning sun, with intricate patterns of streams that ribbon across the shining silt.  These streams are the terminus of two rivers and an old creek, all delivering salmon fry in the spring and welcoming returning fish in the fall.

“I love the low tide, as much as the high tide,” he said, reaching for the binoculars to spot heron tiptoeing between the streams and the violet green swallows checking out the boxes he has raised on poles along the shore.

More of a swimmer than bird watcher, I am happiest when the tide is in, but I have memories of my grandchildren flailing joyfully in the warm mud, emerging like faceless sea creatures to be vigorously hosed off before permitted inside the cottage.  I too have ventured out on the flats where my feet sink, then my knees, until I fall helplessly in the sucking mud, leaving no option but laughter.

Before inhabiting our tidal bay cottage, I did not imagine the allegorical truths inspired by connecting with those fluctuating tides. In the past thirty years, by connecting to what the tides are communicating, I am discovering revelations of life itself.

Near dusk a few years ago, my brother and I shared a canoe we had paddled a few miles south of the cottage.  As the sun continued to set, we turned to paddle back home.  Sitting in the bow, I lengthened my stroke while I visited with my brother.  He paddled deeper and harder from his seat in the stern.

“How do you think we are doing?” he asked.

Proud of my stroke, I answered, “We should be home soon.”

“Look to the shore,” he said, indicating the oyster company where the lights had just turned on.  I looked.  I paddled.  I looked again, and I paddled. The oyster company lights remained fixed in place.  The tide was retreating so fast, that if we didn’t double our efforts, we would make less distance forward than backward.  The strength of the tide, accompanied by an expanded vision, remind me that all effort may be relative to some fixed reality.                     Changing tides inspire humility, helping me to accept what gifts I didn’t know were coming.  Just as high winter tides carry a battering ram of a tree trunk to wipe out our driftwood fence, so the water retreats, dumping our fence and stairs at the end of the bay.  Neighbors help us retrieve what is ours, and in our scavenging, we find even better planks for restoration.  Low tides uncover oysters and clams:  a table-is-set ebbing of culinary fame.  Even baby crabs scramble along the shore. In late August, salmon return along the streams that lace the flats.  Salmon battle determinedly up those streams between lines of families fishing for a big one to take home for dinner.  The tides give and take away, like the hand of a natural god.

How do I answer the ubiquitous question, “How are you today?”  Ninety percent of the time, I answer, “I am fine, or I am well.”  Perhaps, it has been a good day, or I may venture to say a “bad day,” – if the one asking is a friend whom I can trust will hang around for sorry details.  Certainly, our days are never all good nor bad.  I like to think the condition of my days parallels the tides. If it is a Low – Low, I may forget that there ever were welcoming waves in front of our cottage.  If it is a high tide day, I know I am riding a surface on a paddle board, head-high enjoying the sunset sink behind Mt. Townsend.   Most days are those Low Highs or High Lows, but nothing is stagnant.  All life is movement.  We know the moon will turn from crescent to full, and the bay that emptied all but bubbling craters where clams breathe, will within hours, cover meandering streams with salt and sea.

Author: Mary After Seventy

I am a retired teacher, poet, community volunteer View all posts by Mary After Seventy