Part One: The Glow
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Our leader quickly explains what I will need to hurriedly write down. As scribe, I will listen for tag numbers, latitude, longitude, measurements, physical descriptors, and military time. I nod, hoping I won’t forget my instructions or fall behind. How quickly will this all happen?
The tag, medical pack, a few tools, a little food, drink, and bug repellent are placed in the bed of our vehicle. I put my foot on the thick, all terrain tire and jump in the back, taking my seat on the toolbox. “Ready back there?”. Holding the frame, I reply, “All ready!”
The sun has just slipped below the sea. Down the beach we go. The sky deepening. The tide rising. The beach seems to dramatically narrow. “The tide is coming up higher and faster than we expected. We’re going to try to make it through but if it gets too tight, we’ll have to turn around.”
I watch anxiously. It feels as if we will be swallowed up by the waves. The space between the rocks on our right and the sea on our left grows smaller and smaller. “We’re almost there! We’ll just stop for long enough to see the glow and then head back south.”
Past a dead tree covered in shells, we stop at steps leading up to a dock that seems to cut back into the rocks. Without any guiding light we carefully make the climb. Passing through the branches of sea grape, we walk until it opens up to what in the blackness can barely be seen as a small cove. Descending wooden steps, I see the quick dart of glowing green in the water. There and gone again. As if fairies are flitting by, playing tricks on us. “I used to tell my kids that the night fairy lived here. They believed it.”, our leader laughs.
Suddenly there is a splash and bright, phosphorescent green water sprays out disappearing almost as soon as it hits the surface below. A moment of absolute awe is followed by riotous laughter. All of our voices join together exclaiming, “Did you see that?! Do it again! Touch it!”. We fill a bucket and submerge our hands. The moment the water meets our touch and movement, glowing bioluminescence swirls around us. The sound of our joy echoes back to us from the mangrove border across the still water.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like a child.
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Part Two: Polaris
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Back up the steps and down the dock. The branches clear and we again see the waves. The sky has grown darker and the stars clearer. Polaris is over our right shoulder. It points to the Big Dipper. We turn to face Jupiter and Scorpio. The Milky Way greets us. Our jaws hang in absolute wonder.
Sand and sweat roll from under my hat. I take it off and hold it to my chest. A subconscious moment of reverence while I take in the immense scope of glorious creation. Feeling small and yet never more connected to the universe crafted by His hands; I am overcome by the love that holds us. I can’t blink. I hear the waves crash near our feet but can’t divert my gaze. The air is sweet with the smell of sea plants, like the smell an afternoon rain shower leaves in its wake. A balmy steady breeze blows my salty hair. “We need to leave or we won’t make it out. The tide is getting too high.” The words hang in the air and wake me from my rapture.
We quickly pile in and take off down the wet packed sand, the surf licking at our wheels. Jostling over the shell and seaweed I sit facing the back. I watch as the dock disappears to the horizon. The shell covered tree fades. The sky, sand, surf, trees, and rock are all shades of grey now. From ash to charcoal, the lines blur.
I squint to see both what we leave behind and where we are headed. Undoubtedly, a metaphor for my life. I smile wryly at the thought.
Once the beach widens, safe from the pull from high tide, we set to work. North then South. South then North. Back and forth through the night we cut. Laying tracks and looking for crawls breaking our lines. Visibility is low in the black night. I struggle to focus my eyes on the sand. My eyelids are heavy as the hours roll. How long have we been here? I realize I have lost a sense of time. I look up to the glimmer above and a shooting star sprints across the expanse.
“There!”, the hushed exclamation barely louder than the rumble of our engine causes me to spin around. We come to an immediate, sharp halt. I lurch forward and catch myself.
There she is. Emerging from the tide. From this distance she appears as an inky mass moving slowly but surely across the clamshell sand.
We watch and wait. Our eyes following her as instinct calls her forward; we must stay silent and still. I notice that for the first time in hours there is no sound but that of the waves matching our breath.
Then she halts. Nearly to the tree line, she turns. She begins to make her way back to the sea. My eyes close hard. She’s given up. She’s going back. We run to see her; hoping to gather both a glimpse of her beauty and an understanding of her retreat.
Once by her side, it is easy to see why she has surrendered. Aged and algae covered, she has decided the work is too great and her strength is fading. “Goodbye old girl.”, I say under my breath.
She slips under a wave and disappears. We start up the engine. Onward we rumble, bouncing along, eyes searching for a break in our tracks.
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Part Three: False Crawl
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Twice we saw false crawls. Twice battered
and barnacled shells made the long trek across dry sand only to pause. And then as if suddenly remembering something – like the kettle was left on or the door left ajar – they turn back to the sound of the sea. Were they remembering all of the years? All the eggs laid in seasons past, left behind to beat the odds? Were they remembering how tired they feel? In the midst of subconscious memory moving them forward, the call of a beach they themselves hatched upon and returned to faithfully every year… did they just sense that their time was done? Their task of repetition and renewal finally over? All at once, in one moment of pause, they decide not to dig. Not to lay. Not to leave anything behind but soft marks in the sand.
It’s a striking thing to reflect on how time affects us all. Creatures of land, air, and sea all feeling the tidal pull of seasons passing.
I am still in a season of trekking, digging, birthing, and burying. I am still building my nests. I am still laying bare a piece of myself to greet the world. But one day I will have my false crawl. Perhaps I will stand and for a moment stare forward, blankly, as if remembering something I had forgotten. And I will turn for the tide. I will leave this earth-dream for my soul-home. I will heed the call of a familiar voice, one stronger than the push of waves and more comforting than their retreat. And I will know that my work is done. I will know that it’s time to go home.
Emmy Goulet 