The sun cast a glistening silver veneer over the white-capped waves breaking onto the sand bar of the river mouth, and black-back gulls swooped in endless pursuit after shoals of small fish that were stranded in shallow pools created by the ebbing tide.
Patti, holidaying in a quaint, whitewashed, fisherman’s cottage with scarlet geraniums growing near the door, opened the blinds and breathed deeply; a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Two days of persistent fog and cool winds had until now jeopardised her chances of crossing the wide expanse of sand to explore the island that was accessible at low tide for only a few days each year. Today the correct combination of sand bar, tides, and the welcome sight of the sun creeping above the horizon made an expedition feasible. After hurrying through breakfast she quickly packed a lunch, a water bottle and a muesli bar into a waterproof backpack, unchained Buster, her elderly golden retriever and together they ran down the narrow gravel path to the river’s edge. Beyond the vast expanse of wind rippled sand and tiny pools stood the island, a rocky sentinel guarding the river-mouth.
“Come on Buster”, Patti called. “If we are going to make this crossing today we had best hurry before the tide begins to turn. I suppose I should have told them at the shop where we were heading for the day. It’s too late now.”
Slipping of her sandals and buckling them together Patti began the trek towards the island. She knew great grandfather had manned a whaling station, last century, on the far side and she understood there were still signs of habitation from those bygone days. The island also housed an expanding colony of white herons, which Patti hoped to take a photo of, if time allowed. She looked back. The village appeared miles away, but she knew the island, at low tide, was about a mile from the mainland. Not far to go now, she thought. Buster raced ahead sending flocks of gulls and terns into the air. Patti strode onto the island, threw her bag and shoes onto the sand, and ran in decreasing circles yelling out “I’ve made it! I’ve reached the island!” She executed a full cartwheel; she ran towards an outcrop of jagged rocks, climbed to the top waving her hands wildly, and joined Buster in a crazy bird chase. An adrenalin rush fueled her sense of achievement making the trip worthwhile.
The noise of a huge wave crashing on the shore turned her attention to the tide. Not only was it on the turn, but it was also filling the pools. Patti was anxious. What to do? Should she camp on the island until the next tide, or risk the journey back? In the distance dark clouds were gathering behind the hills … a sure sign of rain. She grabbed her pack, whistled to Buster and hastily retraced her steps across the slowly filling passageway with the incoming waves crashing gently at her ankles. Buster splashed ahead, but Patti decided she would feel safer if he stayed at heel, and called him in. Together they headed homewards, Patti keeping up a running conversation with the dog in an attempt to calm her rising panic.
They had retreated half way. Patti did not like the sight, or feel, of the seaweed swaying on the tide and wished she had not been so foolhardy. Why hadn’t she checked the exact time of low tide? If they had left an hour earlier this would not have happened. Buster swam as he attempted to catch a piece of wood drifting by. The water was up to Patti’s knees, and there was still some distance to travel. A rogue number seven wave hurled seaweed onto Patti’s thighs and she felt a rising sense of terror. She couldn’t swim, and while Buster was an excellent swimmer, she knew it was beyond his capabilities to rescue her should she be swept off her feet. The water crept up and desperately she rolled her loose-fitting trousers even higher. No way did she want to have the weight of saturated clothes pulling her down. A waist high wave rolled in catching her unawares. Patti held in check a scream as fear threatened to completely overwhelm her. When the wave finally curved into debris-laden foam Patti spied dry sand, and safety, only meters away. She stumbled to the shore and ran up the beach collapsing onto the warm sand and whispered to Buster, “Shall we do this again tomorrow old boy?”
Buster looked at her, tail between his legs, as much to say, “You must be crazy”.
Patti, holidaying in a quaint, whitewashed, fisherman’s cottage with scarlet geraniums growing near the door, opened the blinds and breathed deeply; a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Two days of persistent fog and cool winds had until now jeopardised her chances of crossing the wide expanse of sand to explore the island that was accessible at low tide for only a few days each year. Today the correct combination of sand bar, tides, and the welcome sight of the sun creeping above the horizon made an expedition feasible. After hurrying through breakfast she quickly packed a lunch, a water bottle and a muesli bar into a waterproof backpack, unchained Buster, her elderly golden retriever and together they ran down the narrow gravel path to the river’s edge. Beyond the vast expanse of wind rippled sand and tiny pools stood the island, a rocky sentinel guarding the river-mouth.
“Come on Buster”, Patti called. “If we are going to make this crossing today we had best hurry before the tide begins to turn. I suppose I should have told them at the shop where we were heading for the day. It’s too late now.”
Slipping of her sandals and buckling them together Patti began the trek towards the island. She knew great grandfather had manned a whaling station, last century, on the far side and she understood there were still signs of habitation from those bygone days. The island also housed an expanding colony of white herons, which Patti hoped to take a photo of, if time allowed. She looked back. The village appeared miles away, but she knew the island, at low tide, was about a mile from the mainland. Not far to go now, she thought. Buster raced ahead sending flocks of gulls and terns into the air. Patti strode onto the island, threw her bag and shoes onto the sand, and ran in decreasing circles yelling out “I’ve made it! I’ve reached the island!” She executed a full cartwheel; she ran towards an outcrop of jagged rocks, climbed to the top waving her hands wildly, and joined Buster in a crazy bird chase. An adrenalin rush fueled her sense of achievement making the trip worthwhile.
The noise of a huge wave crashing on the shore turned her attention to the tide. Not only was it on the turn, but it was also filling the pools. Patti was anxious. What to do? Should she camp on the island until the next tide, or risk the journey back? In the distance dark clouds were gathering behind the hills … a sure sign of rain. She grabbed her pack, whistled to Buster and hastily retraced her steps across the slowly filling passageway with the incoming waves crashing gently at her ankles. Buster splashed ahead, but Patti decided she would feel safer if he stayed at heel, and called him in. Together they headed homewards, Patti keeping up a running conversation with the dog in an attempt to calm her rising panic.
They had retreated half way. Patti did not like the sight, or feel, of the seaweed swaying on the tide and wished she had not been so foolhardy. Why hadn’t she checked the exact time of low tide? If they had left an hour earlier this would not have happened. Buster swam as he attempted to catch a piece of wood drifting by. The water was up to Patti’s knees, and there was still some distance to travel. A rogue number seven wave hurled seaweed onto Patti’s thighs and she felt a rising sense of terror. She couldn’t swim, and while Buster was an excellent swimmer, she knew it was beyond his capabilities to rescue her should she be swept off her feet. The water crept up and desperately she rolled her loose-fitting trousers even higher. No way did she want to have the weight of saturated clothes pulling her down. A waist high wave rolled in catching her unawares. Patti held in check a scream as fear threatened to completely overwhelm her. When the wave finally curved into debris-laden foam Patti spied dry sand, and safety, only meters away. She stumbled to the shore and ran up the beach collapsing onto the warm sand and whispered to Buster, “Shall we do this again tomorrow old boy?”
Buster looked at her, tail between his legs, as much to say, “You must be crazy”.
No comments:
Post a Comment