A Walk on the Wet Side

I went for a walk on the beach today. I haven’t been down there all winter, and now winter is effectively over. I was struck by how many of the cottages have been spiffed up since last summer. Part of that is because there’s been something of a real estate boom here over the past year, so the new brooms are in sweeping clean. But some part of it also just seems to be standard renewal of summer cottages. Most of these places are tiny: clearly not houses anyone is planning to live in for any length of time. And virtually none of them is winterized so you can live in them only during the summer months. There also seemed to be a bunch of new fences.

It’s not that there weren’t fences on the Point before this last round of property sales, but they tended to be casual, see through items, wire or driftwood. The new fences, though, are much more substantial—massed cedars or heavy lumber--and I’m guessing these are being put up by new owners, who bring a somewhat different sensibility about fences to us. Or maybe they are the fences of people who have recently come by a very strong dog that needs to be restrained at all times from lunging into the street. Surprisingly, roaming dogs are the exception up here. Roaming coyotes; well that’s another matter. And thanks to the roaming coyotes, no roaming cats.

Lawns and fences: American obsessions. Why most people need either one is a mystery to me, Carl Sandburg to the contrary notwithstanding.

Down at the water, the fences are all behind us. The beach is sandy…maybe a mile or two long of continuous beach. None of it’s mine, of course, and I am trespassing at all times. In California, people own the beach to the high tide; but in Washington, they own it to the low tide, so they own it all. There’s a big sign on the beach that says it’s a private beach, no trespassing, but I’ve never seen anybody do anything about it. I fantasize someone coming up to me, and the someone and I are the only people in sight as far as the eye can see, and the someone tells me that I am trespassing, and I imagine saying, “I’m sorry; did I get your sand dirty?’

Today at the beach, there is me, and an older couple (not older than me, of course), and a man with a big black dog. Looking out to the water, there is a 180+ degree view of mostly calm, dark grey water with a single silver streak far off shore where the sun is hitting it, cumulus clouds with light grey bottoms and big fluffy white tops, and blue sky right at the top. The sun is just getting ready to shine upon us fully. Edging the water on the far side are the many Gulf Islands and some of the San Juan Islands. They appear as a continuous land mass, but are themselves separated by water I can’t see. On the water is one working boat, fishing for something, as well as one large swimming seagull and what appear to be four loons. It could scarcely be or feel more desolate, more elemental. And I want to yell to whomever: ‘What’s with all those fences when you’ve got this to look at?’ I don’t know that anybody would have an answer, though.