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
Essay - 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.