Forward tales to tide
Abandoning
spatch to the mercy of voracious kittens, I have fled to the Cape with my parents for a couple of days. Naturally the weather promptly turned rainy and cold, but that did not stop me from visiting the salt marsh at Bass Hole Boardwalk, which we had seen from Chapin Beach in June. I took some pictures and my father took a picture of me.

My camera does not always understand contrast, but look at the sweep of that sky.

Low tide on the salt roads.

The photographer in one of their natural habitats. I should note that we were otherwise masked. So, gratifyingly, were the majority of people on the boardwalk. I heard five different languages.

Quite abruptly the sun came out, granting us an attractive reverse shot of the far shore of Chapin Beach. Next time I am here at low tide, maybe I will wade over myself.

The silt-green shallows were swarming with tiny fish wriggling silver, green crabs sidling across the mud, hermit crabs being territorial. A striped bass leapt twice after the insects starting to skim low over the water. My father asked me what it was and I could not refrain from answering, wistfully, "Dinner."

I have missed these sea-clouds.

And the textile glass of currents and wind.

The panorama of the sunset was starting to call out fewer masks and more mosquitos, so we left, but I left with the salt smell in my hair.
My chances at a beach tomorrow will depend on the density of other humans, but it helps so much, just being near the sea.

My camera does not always understand contrast, but look at the sweep of that sky.

Low tide on the salt roads.

The photographer in one of their natural habitats. I should note that we were otherwise masked. So, gratifyingly, were the majority of people on the boardwalk. I heard five different languages.

Quite abruptly the sun came out, granting us an attractive reverse shot of the far shore of Chapin Beach. Next time I am here at low tide, maybe I will wade over myself.

The silt-green shallows were swarming with tiny fish wriggling silver, green crabs sidling across the mud, hermit crabs being territorial. A striped bass leapt twice after the insects starting to skim low over the water. My father asked me what it was and I could not refrain from answering, wistfully, "Dinner."

I have missed these sea-clouds.

And the textile glass of currents and wind.

The panorama of the sunset was starting to call out fewer masks and more mosquitos, so we left, but I left with the salt smell in my hair.
My chances at a beach tomorrow will depend on the density of other humans, but it helps so much, just being near the sea.

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Thank you! I wish I could send you rain.
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Thank you. I really do best around it.
Rainy and cold sound(s) perfect to me, with wildfires all about (not very near, but ashfall = y, windows shut during heat wave = y).
One of
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At the moment I'm living about as far from the sea as it's possible to live in the UK (about 70 miles, in other words) but I do keep pondering the idea of living somewhere with a sea view.
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Thank you. With the pandemic on, it takes so much more logistics to get to water!
At the moment I'm living about as far from the sea as it's possible to live in the UK (about 70 miles, in other words) but I do keep pondering the idea of living somewhere with a sea view.
If you do, I look forward to meeting your sea.
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Thank you.
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Thank you.
I have just bought an audiobook called The Salt Roads because that phrase intrigued me so much with the photograph that I googled it and got linked to a book on African goddesses and St Thais, one of my favourite saints.
That should be Nalo Hopkinson's novel! Enjoy!
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<3
Yay sea! I am so happy that it is indeed helpful.
(I am sorry that it rained on you, but I am also really glad it rained.)
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Thank you!
(I am sorry that it rained on you, but I am also really glad it rained.)
(Yeah, at this point I don't grudge rainy days at all.)
*hugs*
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I didn't know you grew up around salt marshes. That's wonderful.
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I come from the mud and the wind and the wet.
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Thank you!
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So beautiful. So beautiful. lovely lovely salt marsh
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I've never met one I didn't like. Including on your map-melon.
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*hugs*
The "salt roads" in the estuary look to me like a language.
Write me a poem in it!
I'm glad you're at the sea again. Hopefully you're on a beach now.
Thank you. Beach attempt #1 failed maddeningly due to a jam-packing of tourists wearing no masks at all (literally, standing in the parking lot, I was the only person visible with one on; we left), but we are about to make another try in the hopes that as the day cools toward evening, most of these people will have packed up and gone home.
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Have a wonderful time. May there be sea for you.