Walking and searching the tideline and talking
about finding what we are still seeking.
For now, driftwood, sponge coral, mermaid’s toenails.
Later, quantum consciousness, alternate realities, the soul.
Intertidal items of value, interest or utility.
I was surprised to find that the first appearance of the word “beachcombers” in print was in Herman Melville’s Omoo: A Narrative of Adventures in…
Some days you just feel like jumping out of the water and making a big splash.
“It is advisable to look from the tide pool to the stars and then back to the tide pool again.” – John Steinbeck, The Log from the Sea of Cortez
Walking the tidal pool feels primeval – still
it’s today but hermit crabs, sea urchins,
sea squirts, baby sheepshead, spears and periwinkles
have ancient forms scuttling over my feet -
ghost crabs moving through time and space.
You may have heard the story about how a container ship was hit by a massive wave about 20 years ago and it dumped its cargo including about 5 million Legos into the ocean. They still wash up on shores in England and although they are ocean trash, people have been logging their finds and tracking the currents that bring to places.
In 1990, 80,000 Nikes went off a ship into the Pacific Ocean and…
Tonight’s moon is waxing larger than yesterday
and will not be visible at dawn.
It is incomplete growing to the west,
gibbous, lighting whales humpbacked in its light.
Four more days until it is full.
Steam from the pot’s pour sends water
back into the air to rise up
into the clouds drifting rapidly east
over an ocean and continent to island
mountains scented with coconuts, cinnamon and tea.
The stars over the ocean tonight unite
in clusters – patterns that I cannot discern:
darkness above, waves with points of foam,
Pisces swimming the celestial equator , drifting Aquarius,
a dipper set with seven bright stars.
I can stare at waves for a long time without being bored.
Surfers study waves – not like scientists – but they study them for sure. I don’t study them. I let them hypnotize me. Or maybe it’s a form of meditation.
Years ago, when I went for a weekend sesshinat a Zen monastery, my wife asked what it was that I was supposed to learn…
Atlantic wanderer, traveling Florida to New York.
Identified by its freeze-branded “56″ dorsal fin.
Visiting boaters for twenty years, a loner,
old, at 45, unseen for several years.
His freedom lures us into the water.
Staring out to sea this rainy afternoon
from a rocky American Atlantic jetty east
to the French lieutenant’s woman, her jetée
of things thrown oceanward to help hasten
beach erosion, long shore drift, tragic affairs.
This railed rooftop platform seems more 19th-century,
but on this New Jersey 21st-century day,
no mariners’ wives watch for spouses returned,
no Captain’s Walk atop their terrestrial homes,
searching the horizon for ships long overdue.
Cape Point, South Africa - Where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans meet.
On one of the remotest islands on our planet, thousands of miles from the nearest continent, tens of thousands of baby albatrosses lie dead on the ground, their bodies filled with plastic from the Pacific Garbage Patch.
Returning to the island over several years, our team is witnessing the cycles of life and death of these birds as a multi-layered metaphor for our times. With photographer Chris Jordan as our guide, we walk through the fire of horror and grief, facing the immensity of this tragedy—and our own complicity—head on.