Tidepools

This follows “Surfplay” as the second installment of a piece on how early lessons learned at the seashore taught me the resiliency needed to survive life’s losses.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Stretching out in the sand finished the job and now it was time to eat. Oscar Meyer never tasted so good. After lunch we were busy building villages in the sand, exploring rocky reefs and the worlds we found there.

“Grab your sneakers and follow me,” beckoned Dad.

After lacing up my worn Keds, I raced down the beach to a reef now exposed by the receding tide. Dad’s hand steadied me as we picked our way along the rocks to a small pool of trapped seawater.

“Be still. Look into the water until you really see what is there.”

His instructions were simple. Be very still and just look. At first all I saw was a shallow pool with a few shells stuck to the sides and scattered along the bottom. Suddenly a small fish darted out from a crack, then another. Where did those other four come from? That tiny shell was now moving, making its way across the bottom as others criss-crossed their way down the sides. Ha!, they are not empty shells. They are alive. What fascinating little houses they are wearing. Look! A bright orange sea star in the corner. Has it been there all along? As I peered even closer, a speckled purple arm, or is it a leg, of another stuck out of a low crevice. Pausing longer still, I saw that it was moving very, very slowly; so slowly I no longer cared. It made me dizzy to keep watching as those tiny fish flashed between the sea star and my eyes. Hermit crabs skittered, fish darted, sea cucumbers oozed, and the anemones, studded with bits of broken shells, waved short tentacles, beckoning anything within reach to become a meal.

”Look closer at this.”

”Daaaad!”, I squealed, as a stream of sea water splashed my face. “That’s not funny.”

When the tide goes out leaving the anemones exposed, they become squirt guns. A quick, deep poke and water shoots out. Righteous indignation turns to fun when it is your turn to trick a friend.

I moved along to the next pool amazed at how quickly I could see that tiny world come to life. Hermit crabs tip-toed along in their borrowed shells. Sideways-walking rock crabs menaced tiny-clawed threats to no one, the waving arms of the anemones, tiny fish playing hide and seek as they skittered from safe nook to safer cranny, their mouths searching the rocks for unseen food. What I thought was a rock slowly moved along the bottom. I stayed crouched down until tingling feet told me it was time to move along. Salty spray misted my face as the waves signaled the return of the tide.

All too soon each tidepool disappeared as the reef was covered and the waves reached our towels and blanket. Time to pack up and trudge back to the station wagon parked along the cliff. We barely reached the main highway before tired, sunburned bodies fell asleep in spite of bathing suits filled with sand.

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In my twenties I found solace on the beaches in winter. The crowds were gone and it became my place of solitude, especially after a storm. Countless hours were spent meandering the shorelines littered with driftwood and bits of seashells, piles of seaweed, both the fine strands you can braid into anklets and the bull kelp from the deep. The dark blues and deep purples of the water reflected my heart. Waves crashed harder and faster, one upon the next, the next, and the next.

The Super Moon of December pulls the king tide up to the steps of seaside cottages. Super low tides pull back to reveal expanses of reefs unexposed in summer - wet, dark rocks with pools swept clean by the storms. Standing still there is nothing to see, only empty sand and darkness.