spring tides

Around noon today was one of the lowest spring tides of year so far. The dock was almost aground, but a stiff breeze from the north drove enough of a wave to keep it barely afloat. An otter was feeding in the almost-exposed kelp beds, and let me approach pretty close before it dove and was seen no more.

When the tide is this low (and why do such spring tides, which happen near the full- and new-moons, only occur in the daylight hours?) I can actually walk along the clam beds, which is always an adventure. Step too close to a hole and a five-foot spout of water announces the annoyance of the clam. Most of the time that spout is right along side your shoe, and if you're as lucky as me, on the inside.

So I finished the walk with soaked jeans, but not without taking a close look at the wild columbines and chocolate lilies and fields of clover and Oregon grape and rugosa rose. I returned to the car with the scent of the meadow, the sound of the rufous hummingbird defending his territory from my intrusion, and the pitiful cries of the killdeer attempting to draw me away from the nest I never saw.

In other words, I returned from the walk with a head somehow cleared and my heart filled. As usual.