It Feels Like Summer!

Summer arrived this week. She might leave for awhile, but then she'll be back. Record-breaking temperatures over the weekend made our first overnight trip on the boat this season a great success. 
Mount Baker appears to be floating on clouds beyond the Salish Sea. 

Fat seals lounged on sunny rocks and looked up indifferently as we motored past. 

We took our two granddaughters for their first overnight on the boat. Port Browning was our destination, on Pender Island. There's absolutely nothing like a beach, even a rocky one, for entertaining children. 

Gulls cried and swooped across the water and we watched one pick a crab from the sea, bang it on the rocks, and devour it in front of us. 

A curious river otter (they live in the sea, too) watched the girls playing near his fishing ground. He studied them, then flipped his tail and dove, several times. He, too, caught a fish and ate his dinner there.

I spent most of my time on the beach watching the girls. How quickly one forgets the energy it takes to parent little ones. By the end of the weekend, I was exhausted. It's not that they were demanding, but that I'm no longer accustomed to that "always watchful" mode in which parents operate. 

I took a few photos of this rock just below the water level. I didn't notice that I'd caught those three tiny bubbles until I looked at it on my computer. For some reason they tickle my fancy. How perfectly round they are, and for all their transparency, look at the shadows they cast. 

Here's another one of the same scene, this time as the rushing waves receded into ripples that caught the light in beautiful patterns. 

Our summer weather is supposed to continue through the upcoming long weekend. Hooray!

Is spring warming up to summer in your corner of the globe?

Down to the Sea

One of the first poems I remember learning is John Masefield's "Sea Fever." I lived in the interior and very rarely saw the sea. The rhythm and longing in the second stanza awakened in me the desire to spend time beside the ocean. I couldn't imagine being on it. 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
  Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 My first extended time at the sea was in Ecuador, where we traveled from our home in a small jungle town, up, up, up and over the Andes Mountains, then down, down, down steep and winding roads to the beach. 
At first, I didn't like it very much. I was used to northern lakes, limpid morning and evening, where the haunting cry of loons echoed in the still quiet. 
In contrast, the ocean was never quiet. Waves rose and fell unrelenting against the sand and rocks, restless and noisy. I was never quite certain where the water would be when I woke up in the morning. Was the tide high or low? 

However, as with many unknown things that become known, I learned to love the ocean. It's very restlessness became calming. I found the incessant surging and falling relaxing and spent hours on the beach alternately reading and looking at the sea. 

We now live on a small peninsula on an island in the Pacific Northwest. We are surrounded by sea on all sides; the furthest water access is 24 km and the closest, 3.5 km from our home. 
On Saturday I had enough with puttering around the house. There is always more to do and I was tired. School has been challenging this term, now ended. The wind flapped in great gusts around the house. Trees swayed and the occasional bits of debris danced down the street. 
"Let's go to the breakwater," I suggested to Tim, and off we went. 
The waves crashed and occasionally flung up hard bits of spray as we walked out to the lighthouse. The gull mosaic photos are all of the same gull, balancing against the wind before finally shooting upwards to catch the updraft. 

We then drove to Clover Point to watch the wind surfers scoot along the surface, then catch wind and wave and fly through the air. Exhilarating. 
As we walked back to the car, we observed one wind surfer coming ashore. He carried his board and hung onto the high-flying kite. The kite needs to come ashore to land on ground rather than water for easy retrieval. 
Tim noticed the difficulty the wind surfer had in managing kite and board and offered to help. He carried the board, then held the man's hand as he struggled to stay on the ground and pull the kite ashore. Together they made it and brought the kite down safely. 

Still not ready to return home, we drove up to Gonzales Park, to enjoy the expansive view. The long skinny point of land is Clover Point, where the wind surfers played.

While enjoying the view a group of tartan clad runners gathered. I asked one of them what this was about and he said it was a Robbie Burns Run. He defined the group as a "drinking group with a running problem." When I asked if they would be enjoying haggis afterwards, he said, "for those who eat the flesh, yes." I don't think he was one of them. 

The fresh air, wild wind, and choppy seas cleared our heads and we headed home perfectly satisfied. I hankered after rye crisps with butter and honey, along with tea, and we settled down by the fire, replete in every sense. 

Linking with Mosaic Monday, hosted by Maggie of Normandy Life.    

By the Water in December

There is a lot to be done. Papers to grade, gifts to wrap, a house to maintain. But. This morning, as dawn creeps over the land, I drive to Island View Beach for a solitary walk. 

Glaucous-winged gulls. Buffle head ducks. Common Golden-eyes that look anything but common with their striking white markings. Crows. 

The night's frost lingers on the logs. Dawn stains the eastern sky. Last week's fierce storms threw up massive piles of debris. 

All the wind and rain and still the weeds, sere and brown, stand. 

Driftwood is irresistible to children and adults alike. I wonder who created this shelter?

More light in the sky. More grasses to bend before the wind.

I turn towards the car and the wind, formerly at my back, buffets my face and chills my ears. Gloved fingers sting with cold. One last photo - a tangle of seaweed caught on a bit of sand.

It's evening now. A full day has passed. Fatigue set in a few hours ago. But looking at these photos from the morning, my senses remember.  

Wind Warning

On Friday morning the tops of the trees near us began tossing their heads to and fro. A trip to the water seemed like a good idea. Across the strait clouds and mist swirled around the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula. 

At Clover Point waves splintered against the rocks with satisfying crashes then trickled back into the sea. The restless water surged this way, then that, never ceasing.

Great flocks of gulls wheeled overhead, or faced into the wind and barely moved, held aloft by the forces of air. Their thin screams were whisked into nothingness by the gusts.

The fluidity of flight - wings curving and tail feathers fanned. The wind tangled my hair and blew sea mist onto my face. Oh, but it was exhilarating. Autumn's wildness is catching - I longed to lift off and catch the wind like the gulls.

Linking to Mosaic Monday hosted by Judith of Lavender Cottage.