Alexandersmap

    Tag: Buzzards Bay

    • See the Changes

      She has seen me changing
      It ain’t easy rearranging
      And it gets harder as you get older
      Farther away as you get closer
      — Crosby, Stills & Nash, See the Changes

      I have a place along the shore that I’ve visited countless times. The hardscape hardly appears different from visit-to-visit, it’s the bay and the sky, the trees and the characters who surround this spot that change. I’m just another changing character in the history of this shoreline, witness to the changes around and in me. Here today, gone tomorrow. What are we to do, knowing this, but linger in the now?

      Like the bay, I return to the CSN song often. It remains the same, it’s the listener who changes. It will last longer than me, like so much in this world, and that’s as it should be. We are players in the game, writing our verse before we hand off to the next. We should celebrate this, not for the small hold we have on living now, but for our awareness. For we know the score, don’t we? It ain’t easy rearranging, but the truth shall set us free.

      Buzzards Bay

    • December Bay

      Sunsets must be earned in winter. There are no casual seaside deck conversations with a few pictures between sips of rum. No, you must seek out December sunsets by going to where it falls into the bay while bracing against biting cold winds galloping towards you in a stampede of frothy fury. Still, it makes a pretty picture and another memory.

      Micro-adventures and stolen moments of dancing with life count just the same as big trips and scheduled events. Life is our collection of all such experiences. We ought to sprinkle a bit more salt on our days to make them savory. For our best days are savored, aren’t they?

      Not as warm as it looks

    • The Enchanted Witness

      I’d contemplated kayaking out into the middle of the bay to capture the sunrise this morning. That plan blew away in the breeze as the chop and chill nixed the very thought of bobbing along waiting out the first glimpse of the new day. Visions of me paddling back to shore with my tail between my legs and my phone resting on the bottom of the bay made me a land creature instead.

      Then a glimpse of the giant October full moon sinking towards the horizon spurred me up and out the door. I cursed myself for not bringing a better camera than an iPhone, and then checked myself and swung over to gratitude for at least having an iPhone to attempt to capture the moment. We forget, sometimes, just how lucky we are to have so much technology at our fingertips. It wasn’t so long ago that sharing an image of the moon setting with the world a few minutes after taking the picture would have been completely out of reach. Modern life is miraculous when we stop to think about it.

      I never forget how lucky I am to be in a place where I can take such pictures at all. To capture the sunrise 38 minutes after witnessing the moon setting over restless water is itself a blessing. I can’t believe people choose to sleep in instead. In the span of 38 minutes the universe revealed so much of itself, and I found myself the enchanted witness.

      Thanks for your company this beautiful morning.

      Moonlight surfing on waves as the moon set over Buzzards Bay
      Moon setting, 9 October 2022 (forgive the blurry iPhone picture)
      Sunrise, 9 October 2022

    • Doing, With Purpose

      “There is nothing quite so useless, as doing with great efficiency, something that should not be done at all.” — Peter Drucker

      “You seem to spend a lot of time worrying if you will survive, and you will probably survive…. It’s the wrong question! The question is how to be useful.” — Peter Drucker to a young Jim Collins (via Nextbigideaclub.com)

      In September, Massachusetts’ Buzzards Bay is chock full of bait fish—millions of tiny fish trying to make a go of it in this world, as countless birds and bigger fish attempt to turn that bait fish’s purpose in life to be their breakfast. It’s a fish-eat-fish world on display, and offers lessons for those who witness it. Mostly, it’s a reminder to avoid being a bait fish. For us land-based creatures, the best way to avoid that is to live with purpose.

      We all dabble in those questions of purpose, the “Why are we here? questions. But isn’t that too big a place to start? Purpose is an impossibly big scope to answer with such a broad question. We ought to break it down into bite-sized questions that determine our unique value: “What do I do well? “How can I translate that into serving those who need this value the most?” and “What do I need to learn to become even more valuable for those I wish to serve?” are good starting places for building purpose into our lives.

      It’s fair to ask ourselves why we’re doing something. It’s appropriate to wonder where our work is leading us. And we ought to do something with the answers when we arrive at them, for our opportunity to do useful things resides in a very brief window of time. Feeling the urgency of the moment and doing something with it begins with knowing what both that something and that it really are for us.

      When we leave our lives to chance, we sometimes stumble upon a meaningful life. But more often than not, we end up getting chewed up in the feeding frenzy of life. Purpose brings us higher up the food chain, where we might rise above mere existence to a more valuable destination.

      Which leads back to that question of questions, posed so well by Mary Oliver in her poem The Summer Day:

      Tell me, what is it you plan to do
      with your one wild and precious life?
      —Mary Oliver

    • A Swim in the Broth

      “Consider the ordinary barnacle, the rock barnacle. Inside every one of those millions of hard white cones on the rocks—the kind that bruises your heel as you bruise its head—is of course a creature as alive as you or I. Its business in life is this: when a wave washes over it, it sticks out twelve feathery feeding appendages and filters the plankton for food. As it grows, it sheds its skin like a lobster, enlarges its shell, and reproduces itself without end. The larvae “hatch into the sea in milky clouds.” The barnacles encrusting a single half mile of shore can leak into the water a million million larvae. How many is that to a human mouthful? In sea water they grow, molt, change shape wildly, and eventually, after several months, settle on the rocks, turn into adults, and build shells. Inside the shells they have to shed their skins… My point about rock barnacles is those million million larvae “in milky clouds” and those shed flecks of skin. Sea water seems suddenly to be but a broth of barnacle bits.” — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

      I confess to briefly recalling this tidbit from Dillard while reacquainting myself with Buzzards Bay, but mostly I considered the front paws of my canine swimming partner enthusiastically paddling in my direction, and equally pressing, the rumble of morning thunder close enough to keep the swim brief. We don’t think about barnacle bits when we swim in salt water any more than we think about the vapor particles we breathe in in a crowded room (at least until the pandemic). These are simply part of the deal. We embrace the universe as it snuggles in close or we curl up in terror under the covers.

      The point is, we’re meant to be out there living in the world. So dip a toe in the broth, or better yet, plunge right in. For we are very much a part of the stew of life and ought to celebrate our brief moment together. But appreciate that outdoor shower afterwards just a little more.

    • Haze Be Damned

      “No one cares about your potential if you never deliver.” — @orangebook

      There are many moments when we don’t feel like doing whatever it is we must do. The last two days were filled with a few examples for me. Ultimately we’ve got to follow through on our obligations if we’re ever going to achieve anything meaningful.

      What does that have to do with a hazy sunrise picture over Buzzards Bay? Well, the haze was coming from two directions: The show in the sky and the feeling in my head. Some combination of pollen or common cold had grabbed ahold of me (the virus that shall not be named was negative) and was working hard to persuade me to just stay in bed. I’d have to be handcuffed to the bed to not make it to a sunrise, and so, haze be damned, I made my way down to the water’s edge.

      Returning from the celebration of another day to tackle some writing, I came across the timely Orange Book tweet above, which reminded me once again that most of life is simply showing up. We all make our streaks and try to be present for everything meaningful in our lives. Some days we feel great, some days we feel a bit hazy, but every day we ought to make the gift count.

    • Keeping Watch in the Cape Cod Fog

      Cape Cod is a summer playground, we all know that. But what of winter and early spring? These “off” seasons are often described by well-meaning seasonal snobs as desolate and depressing. I’d argue for the stark beauty of isolation, and seek it out whenever possible. The Cape isn’t desolate off-season; it’s dormant. If you listen you’ll hear the pulse of preparation for the busy months. You’ll see the changes as houses transform from small cottages to McMansions all around you. People want to be here, more than ever, and will pay insane sums of money to have their place in the sand.

      I spoke with a neighbor, who lives alone on a plot of land he bought against the strong wishes of his future in-laws for $10,000 back when the Beatles were still cranking out albums. That view is worth well over 100 times what he paid for it back in the day. But money doesn’t matter for him now, what matters is this spot and his place in it. He keeps watch on the bay, talks of old storms and the last time he saw a seal on the beach. Time flies by, and he’s one of the last holdouts from the original young hopefuls buying property in this small piece of paradise. Five and a half decades watching the tides ebb and flow teaches you a few things, and he’s happy to share lessons if you invest your time. I’m in investor in such time.

      I check in on him whenever I visit the Cape, especially off-season. I might be the last person who stepped into his house over a month ago. I’m surely not his first choice for visitors but he hasn’t locked the door on me yet. I did a couple of chores for him while he settled in for story time. He spoke of old cocktail parties as I brought up a few bottles of scotch and bourbon coated in a decade of dust from his basement. His sister was coming over in a week or two (what’s time?) and they were going to light it up once again, having a cocktail with a view of the bay.

      Walking alone in the thick Buzzards Bay fog the next morning, I thought of him alone in his house with the million dollar view. He’s like a lighthouse keeper forever on watch as the world changes around him. He’s both an anchor to what once was and a witness to what is becoming of the upper Cape. Walking around, I was drawn to the bits of hardscape that rose up out of the fog, to reflections in water and the sense of timeless change. We’re all lighthouse keepers in the fog, both anchors and witnesses. We hold relationships and communities together, remember the lessons of the past and share them when we have an audience willing to listen.

      Fog is disorienting because our eyes have nothing to lock on to. The swirling white mist hides both the objects we seek out and the ones we hope to avoid. A lighthouse keeper cuts through the confusion and helps us realize our place. Moving around the bay, seeing objects rise up to greet me, I understood why I’d come down here alone. I was simply keeping watch, it was and always has been about the lighthouse.

      Monument Beach, in the Upper Cape town of Bourne
      Cape Cod Railroad Bridge swallowed in Buzzards Bay fog

    • Soggy Bottom Sunrise

      It was early,
      which has always been my hour
      to begin looking
      at the world
      – Mary Oliver, It Was Early

      No doubt I missed the stunning pink sky on display when I hauled the kayak down to the surf line. No doubt I might have found a better picture had I just gotten up and out there sooner. But why dwell on might-have-beens? Make the most of what’s in front of you.

      There’s a lesson there for the bigger things swirling around you. Things bigger than sandy feet and a soggy bottom as you walk back into the world after greeting the new day as best you could. The world keeps doing its thing whether you show up or not. But isn’t it nice when you do show up?

    • Hurricane Preparations

      The mooring field empties. Only a couple of boats left now, most likely they’ll be gone soon too. Beginning to look like the off-season now. But no, still a few weeks of summer left.

      Summer draws out the furniture, and looking around I know it must be stored safely away today. There’s a calculation that happens in your mind when a storm is coming your way: how much time do we have to do what must be done? Questions around how much traffic will be snaking along to the two choke points off Cape Cod and should I stay or should I go? How high is high enough above the bay should the worst surge occur?

      None of these thoughts are spun up in panic. This isn’t a Category 5 rolling in here, it’s a slow moving Category 1 named Henri with just enough punch to be taken seriously. When you don’t respect nature she’ll eventually teach you a hard lesson. So the boats come out, the neighbors are checked on, the furniture brought in, and the risks assessed. There’s no panic, only calculus and tasks.

      A reverse 911 text alert chirped a warning yesterday. What will today bring? And tomorrow? Tracking west? Less impactful. Maybe. But only Henri knows for sure. The rest of us prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Resilience comes from preparation. And this too shall pass.

    • The Ones That Got Away

      Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
      Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
      transparent scarlet paper,
      sizzle like moth wings,
      marry the air.

      We’re into the long days now in New England. Days of early light and lingering twilight well into the evening. I wake to the sound of fishermen racing to seize their moment, wondering at the urgency of a favorite fishing spot when the entire bay is full of fish. They fish with purpose. Purpose brings intensity and competition. I know these things, even if I don’t share their commitment to fishing before the sun rises. I use that time for other things.

      So much of any year is flammable,
      lists of vegetables, partial poems.
      Orange swirling flame of days,
      so little is a stone.

      I don’t understand the lure of fishing but I understand the pull of the open water. I know the call of the early morning air. I imagine the Striper are running just below the surface as I watch the water. The lilacs are out and so they must be too. Lilacs come and go so quickly, don’t they? So, it seems, do the Striper.

      Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
      an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
      I begin again with the smallest numbers.

      Every year we go through this, these fishermen and women out on the water and me watching from shore. The boats change and so do the characters in them, but still the fish run with the tides. This year feels more optimistic than last year. We’ve all come through something together, even if we aren’t quite there yet. But the Striper don’t care a lick what we’ve been through.

      Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
      only the things I didn’t do
      crackle after the blazing dies.
      -Naomi Shihab Nye, Burning the Old Year

      So many of these moments disappear like sparks into the night sky. We burn through days like firewood, and make the most of so few of them. So much of our time burns away, and we’re left holding on to scraps of memorable. While contemplating the ones that got away.