Life Diverted - December 4, 2025

I hadn’t set out to walk any further than downtown. Just to the cluster of shops at the bottom of the hill near the top of which my cozy house sits with porches high in the trees that look out over rooftops to three church steeples and regularly enthusiastic sunsets. 

I meant to walk straight down, across two perpendicular streets and on into town. But the traffic light at the second intersection was displaying the deep amber hand and it seemed easier to turn left than push the button and wait. My palm hovered over the disc but my feet kept moving and then the decision was made and the sidewalk swung through a clockwise rotation beneath me and downtown fell away to the west. 

My pace picked up. This was no longer a short stroll to town to rifle through the used compact disc bins, it was turning into a walk of significance. 

I checked my watch. Forty-five minutes to sunset.

I zipped my jacket an inch higher and wished for another layer. It was cold and getting colder and the wind coming off the ocean was now in my face bringing tears to my eyes as I kicked through piles of crunchy leaves. 

I checked my watch. Moon at one hundred percent full. Not gibbous or crescent, not waning or waxing. Directly opposite the setting sun and competing for glory. 

I picked up the pace, confident that the increase in apparent wind chill would soon be offset by body heat generated. 

I checked my watch. Dead-low tide in the cove. Not incoming or outgoing. Slack water tugged hard by the audacious moon.

Arriving at Mackerel cove I realized the watch was both correct and superfluous. The length of remaining daylight, the phase of the moon, and the position of the tide were all dramatically on display for anyone with the good sense to stop and pay attention for even just a minute. Late, honeyed rays illuminated the northeastern shore of the cove, exposed bars of sand stretched long fingers toward Baker’s Island, and the plump December Cold Moon had just buoyed itself from the curve of the earth.

Oh, for a pair of those tall rubber boots worn by fisherman on the decks of working boats. The kind that go almost to your knee, lightly insulated against the chilly slosh of the North Atlantic. Mostly called Wellies even if they’re made by someone else, a proprietary eponym, the way that all tissues are called Kleenex, and a bandage is a Band-Aid, Q-Tip, Walkman, Polaroid, Windex. If I had a pair of those boots, I could walk in a nearly straight line all the way to Lynch Park. Less than a quarter mile across the bars that would soon be gone, a mile and a half of left and rights on sidewalks that are always there. 

I felt the tug of the phone camera. 

The beach was nearly deserted. A few dog walkers. A pair of silhouettes huddled in the lee of the seawall. A whiff of marijuana on the breeze. A lady in a full-length puffy parka with fur lined hood who’d succumbed to the lure of the phone camera, staring at the scene in miniature and alien-bright as interpreted by software and hardware. 

I wished for a real camera with a sensible sensor of not just many megapixels, but of many very fine pixels. Big, fat, juicy picture elements marvelously adept at gathering light and faithfully, non-judgmentally converting it to electrical impulses the processors can manage and pass along to be recorded and stored and recovered later to then be manipulated and brought back to something analog and tactile. Not just zeros and ones that have no say in how they’re displayed, but as something considered and intentional and tangible to be held and gifted and received and appreciated. And, not just a shiny, verbatim representation of the original, because that’s not desirable or even possible, but, instead, the photographer’s gloriously flawed interpretation. 

I didn’t have a sensible sensor, this wasn’t meant to be that kind of walk. But, now I was hungry for a photograph and for the process that goes into making one, so the overly-managed picture device became the tool of last resort. Ignoring my obvious lack of nearly-knee-high rubber boots, I splashed out into the shallow pools between the bars for a better perspective. Ignoring the forty-something degree water, I dropped to a knee for the sought-after angle. The moon’s reflection wobbled on the disturbed surface, the sun had slipped below the hills to the southwest and a low, grey cloud shook dry snowflakes from its tail. Ignoring the inadequacy of the instrument, I made a serious effort to craft a worthy photograph. A saying about blaming one’s tools came to mind. Well, sometimes the tools are actually to blame and other times knowing and exploring and exploiting the shortcomings leads to art of a rare sort. 

I stood in the wind-ruffled pool until the beach was deserted and most of the color had leached from the sky and the moon was twenty degrees of arc above the horizon and the tide was spilling back into the cove and the shortest day of the year was exactly seventeen days away. 

My feet were numb as I made the left onto Washington Street, finally heading for downtown. Two blocks later the dim chill of the beach was replaced by cheerful holiday lights and warm, glowing storefronts. I stomped the remaining sand from soaked shoes and pushed through into the used-music shop. Tucking my hat and gloves into a pocket, I blew into cupped hands and flexed my fingers in anticipation of flipping through hundreds of jewel cases in search of musical treasures. Barely three minutes into the effort, a disc I’d sought since beginning to collect appeared. Misfiled in the wrong genre and out of order alphabetically and turned upside down, and I’d skipped right over it initially, but then my brain, following a short lag, brake-checked my fingers and I backtracked a half-dozen spaces and extracted an out-of-print Nick Drake disc. 

It was an exciting moment. 

I spent another twenty minutes browsing as feeling returned to my toes. I snagged an Eminem, a Led Zeppelin and an Eva Cassidy and the owner of the shop commented on the eclectic combination. I made a joke about being musically schizophrenic, possibly psychotic and in need of help, but immediately regretted it as a young Nick Drake met my gaze from the liner notes.

I fast-walked home. The wind was up even more and the shop had been toasty so stepping back out into the weather was a bit of a shock. I was also eager to spin up the Drake disc, to hear the masterful guitar work and the melancholy voice of a young man who at twenty-six, couldn’t find enough joy in a sunset or moonrise or even in his own hypnotic music to continue living. 

The Deluge Images - what they’re about

Deluge

These pictures are about finding optimism in the collision between human proliferation and the response of the natural world. They’re also about my fear of the unknown as it relates to that increasingly contentious relationship.

Initially, I wanted to make pictures about my anger over the deplorable manner in which we’ve treated the planet, but that felt almost too easy and it ran the risk of alienating the audience. 

As I captured images of city canyons and waterscapes, I felt like I belonged in both worlds, intellectually and aesthetically. The sensations were so powerful, they were creating an emotional rift within me. 

What began as an indictment of humanity was transforming into a celebration of possibilities. As I combined the images in post-production, attempting to create something visually arresting that reflected my experiences in the field, I felt that optimism surfacing. 

I’m not so naive that I believe optimism alone will solve any of the environmental problems we face. But, revealing the potential for beauty in that interaction gives me some of the energy I need to play my part in the search for solutions.

Surface Tension (scifi flash fiction)

SURFACE TENSION

The first documented victim was a 57 year old woman from Boca Raton. Her name was Rose Stevenson, and she made a habit of being the first one in the community pool every morning. No one actually witnessed the event, but Meg Gordon, who was lounging nearby described a loud pop followed by a sound like Rice Krispies. The forensic report described the remains as “appearing to have been flattened by a steam roller.”  Attempts to recover the “body” have been, thus far, unsuccessful. 

That was 18 months ago, and while the scientific community is still scratching their heads about what’s causing the weirdness, I stumbled upon a solution. And, SurfTen Pool Reclamation, Inc was born. 

*   *   *

I snap open a Relativistic Test Wand™. It’s not as fancy as it sounds, just a flexible shaft, nine feet long, bright orange, with yellow graduations that mean absolutely nothing. I make them myself, in my garage, from surplus fiberglass tent poles. I charge $175 each.

“Get ready,” I say to the homeowner, as the RTW adheres to the swimming pool surface and instantly crushes flat. The sound of the fiberglass imploding is like a gunshot. As expected, the client jumps back. I jump back also (part of my act). “Wow, that’s a nasty one.” I hold up what’s left of the pole. “We’ll need more data.”

“Can you fix it?” he asks. “Ellie, our daughter, was just about to dive in when a pool noodle rolled off the deck, into the water, and flattened into a red smear. Looked like blood. Freaked her out.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “It’s no joke. She got lucky.” 

“Can’t we just drain the pool and refill it with fresh water?” 

I get this question all the time, I’m prepared. “Nope, won’t do it. The surface will stay exactly as is. A laminar surface tension anomaly is not like an object we can just peel away. It’s a localized boundary layer compression that will need to be re-expanded and stabilized. Here, let me show you.” 

I unsnap an orange Pelican case. “This is a specialized barometer, measures micro-regional air pressure.” I plug a tiny, disposable sensor on a long wire into the device and dangle it above the pool. “The sensors are $125 a piece, that okay? I could try to fix this without a precise reading, but I won’t be able to guarantee the fix will last (total bullshit).” 

“Go ahead,” he says.

I drop the sensor onto the surface, there’s a little snap as it gets squashed, and the handheld unit lights up. I show the homeowner the readout. 

“Normal atmospheric pressure at sea level is 1013.25 millibars (so much more scientific sounding than psi). The pressure at your pool water surface is 326,200 millibars, roughly equivalent to the pressure exerted on an object two miles deep in the ocean. And, just because I’m sure you’re wondering; the reason the whole pool doesn’t just get flattened down is really twofold. One, water doesn’t compress, and two, there is a corresponding pressure zone being exerted on the underside of the water’s surface. Make sense?”

He blinks a few times. “Okay, whatever,” he says. “Just fix it.” 

I fire up my tablet. “Re-expansion and stabilization is $4700 and is guaranteed for 12 months. I recommend a SurfTenPMD 3000™ (patent pending), surface tension pressure monitoring device. You know, for Ellie’s sake. If the pressures reestablish themselves, the monitor sounds an alarm and sends an alert to an app on my tablet and any device you want. The monitor is an additional $850 and it comes with a three year unlimited warranty. The app is free.”

He signs. 

“Great, now you should go inside and stay away from the windows just in case. The concussion created by re-expansion is no joke.”

I put on my headphones, goggles and poncho, and telescope my Surface Tension Anomaly Mitigation Device™ (it’s a speaker on a pole) out over the pool. I step on the foot pedal and the device fires a highly-focused 195 decibel burst at a very specific (and proprietary) frequency, into the water. The whole pool shimmers and wobbles and then erupts. 

I quickly pack my gear. There are 12 more on the schedule today, and I hear there’s a nice break at Long Beach. 

Prominence (flash fiction)

“Be like a rocky promontory against which the restless surf continually pounds; it stands fast while the churning sea is lulled to sleep at its feet.”

-Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

Prominence

Kneeling in an embryo dune, I watch as the wind shapes a small golden comma of sand around a single stem of beach grass. Bits of dried detritus, dislodged from a wrack line by the onshore breeze form punctuation from another language. In a protected hollow, a wind shadow, past meanderings of a stag horn beetle perforate the sand in tiny parallel tracks. Tips of the grasses bend low and swing in the breeze, scribing Saturn’s rings in the sand.

Stepping to the surf’s edge and gazing inland, I can see the fore dunes, the older siblings with their well-established Mohawk of grasses protecting winding spines. Standing taller still, well out of the tide’s reach, are the yellow dunes looking much like distant hilltop meadows from where my feet are drawn down into darker, cooler sand.

North of here, looming over my shoulder, the dunes mature quickly and run, forested, to rocky promontories. Maritime pitch pines huddle low in the lee of the grey dunes on the edges of slack water ponds, cozied by yellow blankets of Wooly Hudsonia. Contorted Black Cherry trees cling to a short, bitter life and Quaking Aspen flutter in a breeze even too light to cool my brow. 

I splash south, watching the mature and grey dunes thin until only yellow remain. The land lowers and the sky presses down, towering cumulous on thermal stilts. Beach grasses struggle to hold fast, the sands continually animated by the volatile mood of the sea. Where the grains lay low in the estuarial shallows, the currents call them by a new name with each turn of the tide. Golden fingers grasp and swirl in the brackish nursery where fresh and salt funnel life, remembered and reborn.

As dunes and bars yield to flats of mud and peat, Cordgrass rises to the challenge. The comical skittering of plovers retreating from hissing foam is replaced by the graceful patience of heron and egret. The rhythmic crash of tripping waves traded for a slower, silent cycle that can only be seen by looking away. 

I climb back in my boat, minutes from being once again lighter than the water displaced. I close my eyes, feel a shadow slide across my face, and anticipate the lift and roll. As Archimedes comes through again, I set an oar, lightly tap the still water and watch Ohs! slide away into the marsh. 

Art in the Barn

The annual Essex County Greenbelt Association’s Art in the Barn exhibition is happening this year on June 13 and 14. The opening reception is on the 13th from 5:00-8:30pm. There will be lots of art, music, food and beverages. I have three pieces going up, including the one below. Hope to see you there!

Flat Rocks Tide Pool

The Deluge Series

I’ve been working on this series for a few months and while I’m happy with the images and have a solid idea in my head of what they’re about, writing my artist’s statement has been a challenge. Here’s the latest addition to the group. I’ll share the statement as soon as I can wrap my head and heart around it.

Deluge #8

A Farewell (a fictional tale)

A Farewell

I made a list of all the ways I wanted to say goodbye. I was grateful for almost four full seasons of notice to get the job done right. The Atlantic Ocean has been my companion for nearly seven decades. Family obligations and health have insisted I move away. I may not make it back.

Motoring, windows down, in the predawn light along Coastal Route 127, Bruce Cockburn sings of lovers in a dangerous time, “One day you’re waiting for the sky to fall. The next you’re dazzled by the beauty of it all.” It feels like a sort of anthem for how my life has gone this past year. I round the corner at Stage Fort Park and cruise the Gloucester boulevard.  I nod to the bronze statue of the fisherman’s wife as she searches the grey water for white sails. The flags that line the harbor hang limp and damp, and all the way to the jetty at Eastern Point, the harbor lays flat and mute. The reflection of the lighthouse beacon reveals barely a ripple.

I spin the wheel and swing back toward Route 133, and the Yankee Division overpass, and the Jones River where I’ll put in for the last time. My low-slung car struggles through the deep potholes that pepper the access road to the landing, but even these I’ll miss. I nose around to the east so I can watch the sky pink up over Cape Ann. I kill the engine and silence floods the car. Even here, the water chooses not to betray its liquid state, all is still. I’ve come to make the first ripples of the day but sit, staring at my hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m nervous. This will be the last time floating these waters and my expectations are high. 

My notebook, curled and stained, sits open on the passenger seat. I flip through the pages to my Atlantic Ocean goodbye list.

√ Swim naked at sunset at Flatrocks 

√ Singing Beach in a snowstorm

√ Rafe’s Chasm during a Nor’easter 

√ Late summer, backside of Crane’s with the kids

√ Snorkeling off the rocks near Marblehead Light

√ Body surfing at Long Beach

Paddle out the Jones to the Annisquam and Wingaersheek

The boat slides off the roof and onto my shoulder almost of its own volition. It feels even lighter than usual this morning. I wade into the October-chill water almost to my knees and set the craft gently onto the opaque surface. It makes a light plop and sends concentric rings into the the marsh like radio waves. “I’ve arrived. I’ve come to say goodbye.” I return to the car for my paddle and reach for my life jacket but choose to leave it behind. If the Atlantic wants me today, it can have me. 

I slip into the cockpit and wet the paddle for the first time. I’m always amazed at how willing the water is to allow us through, how quickly the slender boat accelerates. The full moon spring tide is high and only the tips of the grasses dimple the surface of the marsh. A light, low fog gives Ram Island a sense of hovering. After just three strokes I let the kayak coast and dangle my fingers. I want the feel of the marsh swirling around my hand and the taste of it when I sprinkle it on my tongue. I bend forward to hug the hull, my hands below the waterline, and rest my ear on the hatch cover above my knees so I can hear the water sliding past. 

The sun is still below the tree line but sparkling through the gaps now. I stroke hard and race out into the marsh hoping to be on the river for the first rays. The autumn grass is amber and when the sun streaks across, the water appears to be covered in flaming orange fuzz. I raise my paddle high above my head in silent celebration. I came out to say goodbye to an old friend and have made a new one. 

Leaving something you love doesn’t mean you must fall out of love in order to leave it behind. Ocean water has found ways into my lungs, its salts have buoyed me up and its breakers have knocked me down. Briny fog has soaked me to my core and spray whipped from its surface has mingled with my tears. We have become much the same. To stop loving the Atlantic would be to stop loving myself.