Darkness

Leaving on the Tide

Darkness Unanchored Leaving on the tide

Two magnificent events, one hitching a slow ride with the other.

For hours now, night has reigned, settled stationary above the world, as if anchored, but as the earth’s shoulder slowly falls away to paint the eastern horizon dazzlingly (though humbly) pink then red then the lightest of blue to soon almost white, it grows apparent that the night is not anchored at all but is slowly heading west, out to sea, surfing the falling tide as if chased away by eager and more and more visible clouds.

Setting the stage for yet another day by the Pacific.

Not long ago, I asked a local native if there was any way to see if the tide was rising or falling with just one glace at the ocean. No, he said. You just have to wait and see which way the ocean itself is heading. Half an hour should do it.

Half an hour of very calm waters, methinks. If the Pacific Ocean behaves like it normally does (belying its name): huffing and puffing, and strutting and raving, then it could take an hour or two to sense the overall oceanic inclination.

The difference between high tide (the Pacific is nipping at your heels) and low tide (you can almost walk to Japan — sands seem to stretch forever) is very noticeable indeed. The in-progress direction, not so much.

Some solve this coming or going problem by checking the local tide table, which, while obviously workable (and quite pragmatic), is silently considered by some (me, in the main) as cheating.

Walking at dawn is an amazing spectacle, especially with clear skies. To think that some people drive half a continent to see this (the other half drive east, I would think, to find their nearest ocean), my backyard.

This morning, the tide is so low I can almost glimpse Hokkaido the far side of the horizon — still asleep, night still anchored, hours to go before the rising sun reaches the land of.

© Wolfstuff