Alexandersmap

    Tag: Buzzards Bay

    • I Must Get Back To The Sea

      “The sea 
         isn’t a place
           but a fact, and
             a mystery”
      – Mary Oliver, The Waves

      It’s been less than two weeks since I’ve visited the ocean, and it feels like forever.  We’re deep into the holidays now, and the end of the quarter, the end of the year and the end of the decade.  There’s no time for the ocean right now, but on the other hand there’s no better time for the ocean.  I’m planning at least two trips to the ocean in the next week, for exercise and sanity and a bit of winter beach solitude.  I’m close enough to salt water that it’s not going to break either the time or financial banks.

      I noticed a lot of fresh water experiences in 2019, Lake Michigan, Lake Ontario and exploring a double-digit number of waterfalls in New York, New Hampshire, Connecticut and Scotland. I’m hoping 2020 brings even more opportunities to ponder the mysteries of the ocean.  I know I have a good head start teed up for New Year’s Day.  For today, I’m using this Mary Oliver quote as inspiration for a four of my favorite moments with salt water in 2019.  

      Camusdarach Beach: My bucket list beach, and I’m grateful I had the chance to check this box in 2019. Sure, it was a rainy November day, but it was still as beautiful as I’d hoped it would be. I’m already plotting a return.

      Plum Island: My go-to winter beach, close to home and blissfully isolated on a cold weekday. My lunchtime walk was my favorite long walk on a beach this year.

      Sailing on Fayaway: I shake my head thinking I only went sailing once this year, which was the fewest number of times on a sailboat I’ve had in years. I’m grateful for the crew of Fayaway for giving me the opportunity to sail with them. I’ll get out more in 2020, I promise myself.

      Buzzards Bay: Home away from home. The sunsets are stunning, but I’m partial to the sunrises. Swimming in Buzzards Bay doesn’t offer surf action, but it makes up for it with warm, salty water you can float in forever. At least I wish sometimes it were forever. The last swim of the year is always bittersweet, and, like sailing, I always hope for more next year.

      We only have so many days, where do you prioritize the time you have? If I’ve learned anything in reviewing the year, it’s that I need to double down on my time with salt water. On the beach, on an oceanside trail, on a boat, or swimming in it, I must get back to the sea.

    • The Rules of the Game

      Pre-dawn magic time once again on Buzzards Bay. Up early today, but not earliest this time. My brother-in-law, who owns a hardware store, was busy on his laptop in the kitchen as I headed out for the light show. A barge drifted past delivering oil to Boston. Yes, even on this Labor Day many people are hard at work keeping the world moving forward. And as I watch the rest of the world wake up, I’m pondering a few quotes on this Labor Day in the United States. This may be thought a day of rest for the common man, and I surely am that, but instead I contemplate the game of work, and the challenges that lie ahead.

      “If you don’t build your dream someone will hire you to help build theirs.” – Tony Gaskins

      “You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.” – David Foster Wallace, Infinit Jest

      “If you must play, decide on three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time.” – Chinese Proverb

      “Too many people believe that everything must be pleasurable in life, which makes them constantly search for distractions and short-circuits the learning process.  The pain is a kind of challenge your mind presents – will you learn how to focus and move past the boredom, or like a child will you succumb to to the need for immediate pleasure and distraction?” – Robert Greene, Mastery

      As I write, a crow lands atop a nearby tree, mocking me with its caw. The world owes us nothing, it lectured me, and it’s up to us to make something of ourselves. Pause, reflect, shift if you must, and move ahead. There’s only today after all.

    • Love the One You’re With

      I woke up extra early today, hearing the call. Looking out the window I see a faint orange tint to an otherwise black sky. Not time yet, but close. I lay back down, but it’s no use. The call prevails. I scroll social media to distract the restless spirit. A quick scan confirms my worst fears of missing out. Aurora Borealis seen in Maine and New Hampshire last night. I switch to the Aurora app and look at the blob of green and orange stretching across the entire northern hemisphere, dipping down enough towards New England that a perch on Mount Washington or Katadin would surely offer a glimpse. Despair. I’ve missed it once again. I close the app and open Facebook to distract me. An old college friend posted pictures in Iceland… bet she saw it, I think to myself. Enough! I get up, get dressed and walk out to the crickets. No Aurora here but something equally spectacular I’m blessed to witness. The last day of August calls, and there’s plenty to see right here.

    • Dog Days

      This is the big weekend on the Cape, with the Falmouth Road Race pulling in thousands of runners. It’s big in Pocasset too this weekend, bursting at the seams. The house was full of dogs this morning. And people. But the dogs steal the show as usual.

      Beach work and gardening to earn a swim. Tread water for 20 minutes, bobbing like a buoy on the rollers. Summer days of salt, sun and sand. Sailboats quietly cruise by. Power boats buzz by too, with too-loud conversations over the engine noise. Yes, sound carries over water.

      A moment of quiet now, waves lapping on the beach, deck umbrella creaks as it twists to and fro, runners gone to check in and pick up numbers. Half the dog population and their people have gone home. A few of us remain, holding down the fort. Witnesses to the parade of boats floating back and forth. Sun warming all. These are the dog days of summer. They never last, and changes are coming too soon. Today is all we have, and with that in mind, it’s a lovely place to spend it.

    • One Token Ripple

      This morning I stood out on the jetty well before sunrise looking for the pre-event light show. Not much aside from the building gray-to-white-to-orange glow. Limited cloud action and such. As I stood there waiting for the moment I heard the unmistakable momentum of the swells begin building on the rocks and retreated back to higher ground before my shoes soaked through. The wake of some unknown boater from some time before reached the place where I stood. Their ripple intersected with mine and I was the wetter for it.

      Turning around to scan the horizon for my mysterious boater friend, I saw the glint of first orange light up the windows of some house in Marion. They owned the earlier sunrise while I waited for the sun to clear the hills of Pocasset. Turning back to the east I waited out the climb until finally the dark hills caught fire and I became part of the new day too.

      Walking back to the beach I saw footprints and tire tracks below the high tide mark and realized I wasn’t the first one on the beach this morning. Like Robinson Crusoe I recognized I wasn’t alone. Less a shock to me. As the active fishing community here starts their day during my deep sleep stage. I rise early, they rise in the middle of the night.

      I read yesterday that there have been an estimated 107 billion people. I’ve felt the ripple of a small percentage of them, but have been touched by untold others. People I’ve never met, like the boater who’s wake got my feet wet this morning, or the Army Core of Engineers who built the jetty I stood on when it washed over. Or the carpenter who installed those windows betraying the coming sun in Marion. Authors read, and those who influenced them in turn. A chain of 107 billion links; of those who came before and those amongst us still.

      Two cups of coffee later in conversation with a friend who’s ripple has been more profound, we heard the slapping water and boiling sound of a bluefish run right into the beach. Walking down to the water line we watched the swirling ballet of bluefish and fry dance right to the sand and back out again. I saw the reflection of four fry on the sand that had leaped out of the water to escape the frenzy. Scooping them up I flicked them back into the bay one at a time. Perhaps they’ll survive to adulthood and feed some family a year from now. Or avoid that fate and spawn another generation. Impossible to know, but whatever happens to them, it’s one token ripple sent to the future.

    • Osprey

      Few birds inspire awe like an osprey as it hovers and dives 30-40 feet to pluck a seafood dinner out of the bay. I’m grateful for digital cameras as I wasted plenty of shots trying to do the osprey hunting overhead justice. Surely a better photographer than me could capture this raptor more impressively, but here is my attempt to capture the majesty of the osprey.

      Buzzards Bay got its name from explorers confusing osprey with buzzards. I don’t dwell much on buzzards, but appreciate the deft flying skill of the osprey as they search for prey or dance together in the sky. They’re the original navy pilots, striking terror in the hearts of fish and small critters alike. Top guns of the bay.

    • Salty Swims

      Tonight I went for an evening swim in the bay. It occurred to me that I was way overdue for it. I prefer swimming in the ocean over ponds, pools, rivers and streams. I’ve swum in ’em all, and enjoy most every one of them. But let’s face it; Salt water is better than fresh water. Unless you need a drink anyway. But I’m talking about swimming, so don’t go throwing hydration at me. With swimming nothing beats the ocean. The buoyancy is better, and the salt is better for your skin. Don’t tell me about sharks. I’ll take sharks over alligators. At least with a shark they’ll spit you back out most of the time.

      When you jump in the ocean you become a part of the ocean, which makes you a part of all of the oceans, which makes you a part of the world. You just don’t get that kind of a connection in a pool, no matter how big it is. I’m not really sure if people living in the middle of the country understand the draw of surf, sand and the taste of salt on your tongue. But once you’ve tasted it why would you ever leave?

    • On Hemlocks and Time Travel

      There are few places I’d rather be than deep in a quiet coniferous forest.  Hemlocks are my personal favorites, but balsams bring their own pleasures.  While you can find both in any old neighborhood, there’s nothing like a stand of native trees out in the forest.

      I found myself kneeling down under a stand of hemlocks this weekend during a hike to see the Lick Brook Falls.  The combination of waterfall, mature hemlock trees and solitude was like a jazz trio playing your favorite tune.  Instantly familiar, but in a whole new way.
      Nature is a source of energy.  Like many I’m revitalized in the woods, and especially in the presence of conifers.  I was once hiking with a group of friends and found myself well ahead of them in one stretch of trail where I was surrounded by balsam firs.  I stopped to wait for them and as my heart rate came down the quiet of the forest drew me in.  I became a part of the forest myself for those few minutes until my friends arrived.
      I had a similar feeling when I was looking out at the waterfall Sunday.  It was a deep contentment with where I was at that moment in time.  I’ve gotten that feeling from the swing in a rowing shell when all of us were blessedly in sync and the boat was balanced and moving well.  I’ve had that feeling floating underwater in Buzzards Bay when I felt like I was a part of the bay.  And I’ve had that feeling of flow and time travel when I’m writing or having a magical conversation with someone special.  This is flow and synchronicity, stillness and movement, urgency and timelessness blended together into an energy drink we can swim in.
      But back to the hemlocks.  I’ve wanted to plant a stand of hemlocks in the woods behind my house, and another stand of them between my house and the neighbors.  I’ve lived in this house for twenty years and haven’t done it.  Part of that was concern for the invasive species woolly adelgid, which feeds on hemlocks and eventually kills them.  I don’t have a great excuse really, and so I’m going to plant a bunch of hemlocks this spring.  I may live in this house for another twenty years, or a may move on in a year.  Who really knows?  But the hemlocks would live on – hopefully a legacy to some quirky dude who shared this place next to the woods once upon a time.

    • Gray Gables

      Grover Cleveland was the 22nd and 24th President of the United States of America (the only President to be re-elected in non-consecutive elections), was the Governor of New York before that, and the Mayor of Buffalo before that.  Grover Cleveland was a Bourbon Democrat, which today would be aligned with a Libertarian or conservative Democrat.  He’s considered one of the more successful Presidents we’ve had.

      Cleveland was born and died in New Jersey.  During his years as President he had a summer home in Bourne, Massachusetts in an area known forever since as Gray Gables.  That was the name of his summer home, which became the Summer White House during his Presidency.  The house burned down in the 1970’s, but the history of Gray Gables lives on in the area.  A train station that was built for the President’s train stop still exists today, but was moved away from the tracks to an area near the Aptucxet Trading Post and Museum.  This train station had a direct telegraph connection to Washington, DC.  Gray Gables was the epicenter of politics in the summers of 1893 through 1896.

      Cleveland Ledge is named after the former President and it was in these choppy waters in Buzzards Bay that the President would go fishing.  Road names like Presidents Road and Cleveland Circle betray the history of the place.  The land around Gray Gables has been built up over the years since then.  Hog Island stopped being an island when they used fill from the channel leading up to the canal to create a peninsula.  But Buzzards Bay remains largely as Cleveland would have remembered it.

    • Oil Delivery

      Oil Delivery

      In the early morning hours of December 31st, Buzzards Bay was very still.  There was a glow from the towns on the other side of the bay, but otherwise the night was dark yet brilliantly lit by thousands of stars.  House lights and red and green lighted channel marker buoys twinkled across the calm water.

      Off season is very quiet on Cape Cod, and that’s particularly true in this quiet corner of the Cape as well.  There are very few year-round residents, and the few that are around aren’t hanging out on the beach this time of year.  Walking down the beach to take a sunset picture last night I saw two couples doing the same, and saw one other family when I first arrived and a power walker this morning.  Solitude prevailed.

      The only company I had was announced by the distant thumping diesel engines of the tug boats pushing oil barges to and from the canal.  Tugs are a constant companion on the bay, and there was no let-up at 3 AM.  Heating oil is in high demand this time of year, and barges are running from Hicksville, New York on Long Island up through the canal to fuel thousands of customer’s heating systems.  There’s an estimated 2 billion gallons of oil being shipped through the canal annually.

      In 2007 a barge being towed hit a submerged ledge and leaked 928 gallons of oil into Buzzards Bay.  The ecosystem is very fragile in Buzzards Bay and from that point on barges are required to have two tugs to ensure that any trouble is mitigated immediately.  The 2007 leak was the fourth such incident in 32 years from 1975 to 2007, and thankfully there haven’t been any since then.  I’m told that they’ve started using double-hulled barges so that even if the primary hull is breached the second hull should contain the oil.  I hope so.

      But last night, that wasn’t on my mind so much as knowledge that the tugs and barges continue working this stretch of water from Long Island to New England and perhaps Canada.  This isn’t a 9 to 5 job, and I appreciate the people out there working the wee hours of this morning of 2018.  Hopefully they’ve reached port and are able to celebrate New Years Eve on shore.