Fog Season at the Salish Sea
If not for the pup and the ritual of our morning walk, I might not have banked so much joy, watching her endearing hobby-horse bounce as she runs across the field. I would never have seen that barred owl swish overhead in a silent, majestic flight. I'd have missed the quiet presence of the setting moon and an infinity of stars disappearing into the pale blue.
No question, I would have remained in bed, reluctant to embrace the endless rains of autumn—on this blustery morning, rattling the old windows. But the pup and I have a daily commune with nature: rain or shine, fair winds or gales.
Pulling on jeans, wool socks, and a flannel shirt, I walk softly into the unlit kitchen to make coffee. The pup hears me fill my mug, jumps off the bed, and shakes herself awake.
I open the blinds and glance out the window to note the condition of dawn: still dark.
Slickers on, the pup and I head out into a dense mist. I don’t know it yet, but in a few minutes, I’ll wish I had worn my rain pants. The clouds are about to burst open and pour out their pails. But at this moment, I’m still full-coffee-mug optimistic.
I look to the horizon and note the condition of the day: soggy.
The pup tugs on her leash, and we head past the cemetery and onward to the rocky beach. There’s a lot of slippery kelp today, wet logs, wet everything. The pup points her nose in the air and sniffs for otters. Seagulls bob around floating driftwood.
I have my usual morning mishap: while standing too close to the water’s edge, a rushing wave submerges my boots and pant cuffs. I also have my normal reaction: a shrug, a smile.
These rituals are how we ordinarily greet the day: by facing the sea with our quiet thoughts and checking in with the world.
Good morning, sea.
We meander slowly down the beach. A bank of low-lying clouds shrouds distant mountains. Through the fog, a few cargo ships appear. Ghost ships. I focus on the tide line and hunt for flotsam: sea glass, pottery shards, bits of rope, broken buttons. Mostly hoping to spot the odd tumbled agate among the pebbles. I'd have more luck if sunlight helped illuminate their translucent bands. On this rainy day, agates elude me.
A heron flies past, low to the water, wing-beats equally up and down. Up and down. The coastal First Nations People consider the heron a good omen, reminding us to seek harmony with natural conditions. Go with the flow. Embrace the rain.
The pup and I leave the beach and cross the street. The sound of the sea fades behind as we enter the park. The ground is saturated, squishing under our feet. But oh, the grass is green! The moss, luminously so. Wind rushes up the street, shakes the trees, then stillness wraps us in a pocket of calm.
I take a sip of lukewarm coffee and note the condition of the neighborhood: still asleep.
About halfway through the park there's a little library book exchange. I stop to browse the latest offerings. A paperback catches my eye: The Sea by John Banville. Winner of the Man Booker Prize. Should I read this?
I crack open the book and read the first paragraph about strange tides and mewling seabirds. Yes, this book is most definitely coming home with me. Crows signal their approval in the chestnut trees, making a fuss. I unzip my rain jacket and tuck the book dry and warm against my chest.
We’re on the move faster now; the pup has suddenly remembered this is the way home to her breakfast bowl. But wait—she halts at the corner to sniff one specific blade of grass holding secrets to her invisible scented universe. We allow one long, slow minute to investigate. A bus and a city garbage truck go by. A hardy cyclist shears a puddle. Then onward, pulling toward the kibble.
We’re up the driveway faster now and in through the back gate. The hummingbird feeder is empty, but there's still suet left in the cage. Hungry backyard birds send it spinning in the rain. Juncos, sparrows, wrens, and one plump Spotted Towhee. I note this, too.
The pup points her nose to the door, then looks at me with her soft brown eyes. Affection floods my heart. I open the basement door to a rush of warmth, kitchen light, and my Love, who is waiting for us at the top of the stairs.
-Karin Hedetniemi
Karin Hedetniemi is a writer and photographer from Vancouver Island, Canada. Her creative work is published in Lunch Ticket, Hinterland, The London Reader, Prairie Fire, and other literary journals. In 2020, Karin won the nonfiction prize from the Royal City Literary Arts Society. She lives in a cottage near the foggy sea with her husband, two pups, and jars full of seaglass . Find her at AGoldenHour.com or on Twitter @karinhedet.