Red Crab, Blue Crab

One crab, two crab,

red crab, blue crab.

Dead Fish Poetry (Not the Rhyming Kind) (Or Even the Poetry Kind)

A thousand slim silvery fishes decorate the high tide line on the beach, extending as far as I can see in both directions. Short lives, churning at the waters edge so thick they make the water black. Short weeks, a life cycle completed: the run along the coast moving slowly from village to village, inspiring bonfires and late-night revelry. Laughter and silver beer cans shining in the dark as nets swoop through the teaming rush of surging life. Whales following the schools during the daytime hours, a bit farther off shore; black backs shiny, the sunlight reflects off their glistening surface as they break through the calm water, blowing a puffing breath before they sink below. The Minke circles round and round, creating a whirlpool, trapping hoards of Caplan in its pull, and then rushing up like a SeaWorld performer, mouth ajar for maximum harvest. All that is done for the season. Now, on the beach, there are too many Caplan even for the greedy gulls to devour. The tide will take some away. Others will dry out and get covered by sand, or possibly eaten by my dog, who seems to prefer them desiccated to fresh, crunchy fish-chips rather than fish 'n chips.

Jigging

The old-timers tell stories about Brochu Beach, for example, most of the time you cannot see the mountains on the other side of the Saint Lawrence River because it is so wide here, but on the days when they show their pointy peeks the old ones say that means it will rain tomorrow.

The low mountains that run behind the cottage, starting from the rocks at the end of the beach, are called Les Jambons on our topographical map, and lest you think this is due to the pink coloured granit that brings to mind cured ham, the real story, according to the old folks, is that a truck hauling hams tipped over spilling its goods onto the 138 (le cent-trente-huit), causing that hill on the highway to be known forever after as the "côte de jambon" or ham hill.

The hook above looks like the kind that was used back in the day when the cod were thick just off the beach. The cod were huge,  the old-timers say. You could get into your small boat and sit with your cord dangling into the salty brine, weighted and sporting a nail bent into the shape of a big hook. When you felt the cod playing with your line you jerked it up, catching the fish. This is called jigging for cod.

Ghost Nets and Offshore Clothing

When I found this ghost net today I had mixed emotions, I was happy to take it out of circulation, but dismayed at the thought of innumerable ghost nets floating out there killing as they go. One less is good, but I wish someone would invent a way to collect the others.

The articles of clothing that wash up onto the beach are always weighted with their stories. I try to imaging who wore them, and how they lost them. This red and white striped shirt does not feel like it was "Made in Canada,"  the material is coarse and not stretchy, almost as though made on a loom. You can see the colour has run as it lay crumpled on the sand. the cut is long and narrow, and there are no tags; it might be hand made. Maybe it was worn by a tanker ship sailor from the Philippines. He took it off and laid it on the deck because it was hot and he was working hard. Maybe his mom gave him the shirt before he left port six months ago. And then a gust of wind grabbed the shirt and flung it into the ocean. What could he do but watch it float for a while and then sink. Another piece of home lost.

Blue Flag

At the edge of the beach,

rooted in rocky cracks,

a flash of periwinkle; 

Wild Iris,

a blue flag 

dancing 

in the salty breeze.

Clean Slate

I wanted to use a photo of an impressive spider with a big blue butt that I took today for this post, but I was afraid of two things: 1) I might scare an unwary arachnophobic as they scrolled innocently through their Facebook feed, and 2) people might not come visit me at the beach if they know what is out there. To solve the first problem I have added the spider at the bottom of this post, so if you do not like spiders, refrain from scrolling down. As for the second problem, let me just assure everyone that I have been hanging out on this beach for about fifteen years and no spiders have harmed me as of yet (although a few may have been harmed by me if they ventured into the cottage).

Now for the photo of the beach. I think I have taken a few thousand pictures of this. This beach, those rocks, that sky, that ocean. In the snow, in the fog, in the sun and on cloudy days. I feel like the postal service of beach photos. And as I looked at this one I tried to understand why it is so appealing. There is the geometry of this shot, the horizon line between sky and water, beach and rocks. There is they way the ocean and the treed point echo each other. There are the contrasting textures: liquid ocean versus solid rocks, granular sand(ular) versus lofty air with puffy clouds. Then there are the sounds; can you hear the waves rolling in and the white-throated sparrows calling from the evergreens above? Can you feel the warm sand as it shifts under your bare feet and and the salty wind as it blows your hair into your face? Maybe it is all of that which encourages me to take a photo of this scene over and over again.

But I think there may be one thing more. This is a picture of possibilities. This is a picture of a clean slate. That expression, as you probably know, comes from the times before we recorded everything on an electronic device that stores our thoughts in "the cloud" someplace for ever and ever. A clean slate refers to the blackboard we used to use to record our ideas with chalk (incidentally made from exoskeletons of sea creatures from the Cretaceous period, but that is a story for another blog). With chalk and a blackboard we brainstormed our thoughts and then erased them and started anew. There is something attractively liberating in this. And a beach on the ocean is a similar slate. It is wiped clean twice a day by three meter tides. All of the old foot prints and four-wheeler tracks and detritus of the last half-day are smoothed away and we get to begin again. A fresh start.

For all of us finishing a school year as teachers or students, here is a metaphor for the summer: the beach is smooth and ready for new footprints. And for anyone who wants to see the spider with the big blue butt, just scroll down!

Little White Bells

When I saw these today, this first day of summer after the shortest night of summer solstice, my mind leaped forward into August when the little white flowers will have matured into indigo berries. The small, sweet, wild (lowbush) blueberries that grow in the forest and on the rocks that line the shore. Mmmm.

Ripples

Ripples act like a foot massage when you walk on them in bare feet. This reminds me of a story. When my oldest daughter was around two and just learning to speak, my niece stayed with us for a term of college. My daughter asked her for new feet. My niece couldn't understand what my daughter wanted. Eventually we figured it out; we live in a bilingual household and she was using one word in French and the other in English. When she said, "I want new feet!" she meant she wanted to go barefoot. In French that is "nu pied." She really wanted "nu" feet! 

Fleeting

Time for reflection is fleeting. Someone is often ready to run in and cause ripples on our concentration. It is tempting to be constantly surrounded by visual and auditory stimulas provided by others on our computers, televisions, speakers and earphones. It is difficult in the rush of things to just do nothing. Stand and listen. Just look. Let your own thoughts roll lazily across your consciousness without intervention. But reflection is key to creativity and even productivity. Our minds need these periods of neutral rest just like our bodies need sleep to function.

Horizons

My daughter moved to Quebec City for college this year, and when she returned to the North Shore she noticed how much she had missed seeing horizons and big skies. Don't get me wrong; she loves the urban setting, knows her bus routes and appreciates the tall leafy trees of her new home, but she kind of misses that expanse of blue, with trees in the foreground, layered on rolling hills and a distant cloud bank.

Spot the Exoskeletons

This photo looks like an arranged still life painting to me. I love the colours of purple and orange and the textures of the sand, wood, and flotsam and jetsam. Can you spot five different kinds of exoskeletons? Scroll down for a list of the ones I saw...

• Crabs (5, I think, at least if you count bodies not legs; some are only partially visible)
• sea urchins (2)
• snails (2)
• clams (2)
• barnacles (too many to count)

And no, the feather does not count as an exoskeleton. :)

Model Organism

Scientists chose yellow lichen as a model organism to help them with genome mapping! In the past they used to use it as a remedy for jaundice because of its colour, but some lichens really do have antiviral potential!

(Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xanthoria_parietina)

Cocotte

In Quebec the word for "pinecone" is also used as term of endearment for a girl.
Ma belle cocotte! My beautiful pinecone!

Timber!

There is something about these trees, which have fallen, but are still held aloft, that catches my attention. There is danger there, definitely. By noon today the wind was a wild thing whipping through the forest, and branches thrashed above my head while trunks screeched as they scraped against each other. The sounds this produces are eerily like ghost voices or birds of prey. I stop and watch and try to find the place the noise is coming from.

I look at these leaning trees and imagine them crashing down the rest of the way into my path or onto my head. Someday they will fall; I have come across newly toppled trunks blocking a path that had been clear the week before. But imagine being there as it falls.

For now, though, these trees are still leaning, holding onto their potential final "Timber!"

Likin' Lichen

These plants look like Dr. Seuss drew them.

Great Balls of Fir

Okay, actually a great ball of Spruce, but it was too good! I love these things. They are everywhere in the forest once you start looking for them. They are called "burls" and are caused by some sort of problem with the wood grain: insects, disease, or knots from dormant buds. Burls have bark on them even underground. On the giant trees out west poachers will saw off refrigerator-sized burls to sell the uniquely grained wood. My daughter remarked, "Isn't it interesting that a problem results in something beautiful."