Finding Lessons in King Tides

not all tides are like the others...

I rise early in the morning, as I usually do when the body is on EST, the mind on the Pacific clock. Early writing pages complete, I layer up: black lycra long-sleeve shirt, purple fleece zipup, teal Gortex overcoat. In preparation of something special. I’m out the door by 7 a.m.

Rain be damned. This is Oregon. If you’re not here accepting water in any form, don’t come at all.

Driving down the 101, a morning as black as the road tar, my heart races. Not with its usual palpitations. Those had rescinded hours earlier when my feet plodded their way past three blocks of neighbors’ homes snuffing out their daytime worries, taking on nighttime woes. I sniffed at the few spicy stands of cedar and spruce and bounded down a 50-step stairway leading to me to my Mecca. Anywhere along this coast, I am home.

Far off in the Siletz mountains of the Coastal chain, a sliver of earthly pink cuts through the viscous clouds. Some say pink was the earth’s first color. Here, one might believe it. The pinks that greet you at dawn along the coastline are like little candy tarts to wake up the senses. The pinks that one bids goodnight to are like cups of hibiscus tea, a ritual of bedtime comfort. Everyone thinks Oregon is a coffee haven. But with a few companies (Stash, Tazo, and Smith) founded here, Oregon is for tea lovers. Every sunset is a ceremonial cup.

Though there’s more to yanking myself out of bed than a cup of tea. And they’re called the King Tides (also known as the perigean tides). These awesome tides happen infrequently when the earth, moon and sun align at perigee, meaning sun and earth are closest to the moon. Every location produces a different version of a king tide. And every high tide produces wonders that run beneath the belief of the sea.

I can resist the pull of the moon no more. Turn the wheel toward the wayside, step from the car. Standing eighty feet over the ocean, I’m glancing at a crescent of rocky spurs called Boiler Bay, named for the remains of a ship's boiler, wrecked in 1910, visible at low tide. Waves crash below me against basalt, a dark volcanic rock, having nothing to do with salt other than its fine grains. Its real meaning is very hard stone or touchstone. In Terms of Endearment, Patsy Clark says, “You’re my touchstone, Emma!” Basalt rock is mine.

The parking lot is empty except for me, and an emergency vehicle, parked in the right place. Right now is an emergency for me. If I don’t extract myself from my stead against the car door, I might never leave and arrive at my true destination. Despite the name Boiler Bay, and the tides rolling in from eternity, nothing is boiling here, other than my body heat from my stratums of polyester. There are bigger tides to tell of.

An avid traveler, I’ve witnessed the surf in Hawaii, and Rincon, Puerto Rico’s surfing capital. The awe of Oregon King tides arrives in the form of fortitude that presses through pelting rain drops with the conviction that at some point in the day, a few ring gold rays of sun might break the clouds, forcing its way into your bleak world. And accepting it might not.

Waves here hit at a different slant. They mostly explode against the basalt rock that protrudes along the coastline—proof of God’s lack of mercy. Her willingness to keep this beauty of Oregon all to Herself—erosion happens by the minute—a make the place disappear either through time or tide level. Tides slip and slide in and out, all day. Soon enough, you’re caught in a sneaker wave, stepping in a streamlet from a waterfall way originating back in the mountains that you cannot reach, or simply wanting to dive in, enjoin your soul to something greater. It is a cult I didn’t know I joined until too late.

This is the situation I find myself in.

My projected stop that morning, I arrive at Depoe Bay by 7:30. The highest of high tides occurring at 8 a.m. This timetable upsets my morning equilibrium which is usually begun with a hike on the coast. However, my curiosity is awfully happy. My car’s tires roll alongside two others parked at the overlook at the Bay. The world’s smallest navigable harbor, its doglegged channel, as if one could golf on these waters, connects to the Pacific Ocean. The town is known for its whale watching excursions and salmon fishing charters. Only one thing am I fishing for today. A big catch.

Lame attempt to capture the heights of these waves.

The rain is relentless outside of the car, rendering my camera somewhat obsolete in its newness. From hundreds of sopping yards out, I track the swell of each undulation of sea by the flutter inside my heart. Blood is coursing, throbbing at the heights of tides washing in now coloring my grayscale world. Their tips will break over this overlook on occasion. The mist already floods my windshield, me too. I am now wearing another layer—water to become the sea animal I always wished I could be. Sea lion, heron, pelican. Looking for that coat of Gortex feathers to join them. Fears too many to account, I am more oystercatcher, dipping feet in the water but never fully immersed.

Waves crush the quiet. Nothing stops me now from simply bracing for each brute of water wall. Will it strike me down? Doubtful. Below, on the shore’s rocky ledges, the sea has punched an opening through the seams of rock. Water threads through this well, fresh foam spouts up to brush my face time and again. My mouth opens, accepts a liquid more blessed than wine.

New onlookers arrive with hot coffee in hand. I move past them, my tongue aching for that heat, toward a little park, my private viewing space. Accessible because my hiking shoes aid me in navigating the slippery path. One wrong pitch of the foot and the tides will claw me away. I am breathing in these waves. For hours, they paint my insides over and over with a fresh coat of ocean froth. In reality, six minutes have passed, rain yet to relent. Me neither. With little desire to give up, I inch toward a smaller bay, around the cliffsides where a path runs past a motel/condo complex. The crafty heron awaits my spotting him in the arms of a Douglas fir. Herons always fly ahead of me, never over and beyond. That will be the first of four that punctuate my day.

Another two miles of rocky coastline is at my toe tips where I witness the grandeur of waves smash at the rocky establishments. The earth quakes beneath my feet as the sea passes itself to the next crest.

I’m smiling as wide and long as the last reach of coastline in view. It is a water world I am living in. If we are all going under, I will make a last stand here. Perhaps more prudent a choice than the one currently awaiting me, my family and friends, our country, our land.

If there are lessons to be learned from the King of tides, let them be these: They are difficult to capture on film. Wonder exists not simply for amusement, enjoyment, or to witness and abandon it. Thus, this kind of nature thrusts itself upon us as a reminder. Rewards on earth come in this form: what we are meant to enjoy, if we can keep it or protect it.

There is no space rocket nor man or women inside one, that can move the moon, the earth, and sun, align them in orbit to create this. Nor should there ever be.

---

Here are a few places to join me in writing and life:

Feb. 5 - Caring for the Caregiver writing experience, Alois Alzheimer Center. 1 – 3 p.m. Email: amjwick@gmail.com for details.

Feb 18 - I will be introducing and leading a Q&A for As If You Will Remember, “an interdisciplinary artistic response to dementia’s multi-faceted and increasingly prevalent sorrows,” developed in part by my colleague, Pauletta Hansel. Fundraiser for Giving Voice Foundation. Information below.

Feb 25 - Caring for the Caregiver writing experience with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. Giving Voice Foundation. Virtual. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here. 10 - noon.

March 12 – Lloyd Library. The Impact of Plants & Nature-Based Supplements on Breast Cancer Treatment. My husband and I are pleased to support the Lloyd Library as they present this program on breast cancer in conjunction with two renowned physicians, Jen Manders, breast cancer surgeon, and Julie Specht, a breast cancer oncologist, from The Christ Hospital. Visit here to register.

April 1 – National Italian American Foundation, Ambassador magazine: NIAF on Location: Cincinnati. Visit: https://www.niaf.org/. Details coming soon.

April 1 – Edible Ohio Valley newsstands – The Charms of Cornmeal, Profile: Reka Butchery and Delicatessen. www.edibleohiovalley.com. Link coming soon. My latest online work here.

April 16 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience, Alois Alzheimer Center. 1 – 3 p.m. Email: amjwick@gmail.com for details.

April 19 – Contemporary Arts Center Creative Writing Project. Runs 8 weeks. Sign up now!

May 10 – Climate Writing Workshop. My colleague Elaine Olund leads this climate writing workshop as part of Studio Kroner - All Else Pales - 2.

May 13 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience. Giving Voice Foundation with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. In-person. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here.

August 12 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience. Giving Voice Foundation with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. Virtual. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here.

November 14 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience. Giving Voice Foundation with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. In-person. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here.