Tsundoku is a Japanese word for the art of surrounding yourself with piles of books you intend to read.
I approve of this word.
Lexington, Virginia,
many years ago.
(Actually, not even 10 years ago.)
Piles of Possiblities
Superb Owl Sunday 2023
Eastern Screech Owls from last summer.
Got their game face on.
Sailing to Freedom
Hey, that’s my boat!
I’ve been reading a lot lately, which feels good. I’ll share here the ones that really rang a few bells in the old brain pan.
I found this one through a backdoor. When looking for the source of an image, I came across this exhibit of the New Bedford Whaling Museum.
That lead me to a book by the same name.
It’s a fascinating piece of history. The stories correspond to a few elucidated in greater detail by David Celceski, a historian who grew up in coastal NC in his book,
The Waterman’s Song: Slavery and Freedom in Maritime North Carolina
It’s a detailed compilation of how centuries of black enslaved and freemen of the Outer Banks and coastal NC learned the dangerous trade of navigating those waters from early settlement, so their white owners wouldn’t have to take the risks. But this skill gave them a valuable advantage when it came to vying for freedom, or assisting others in escapes, as the Civil War approached. (Thanks for the recommendation from Steve Earley.) In some cases, they joined the Northern Navy and assisted in raids and blockades of Southern ports, because they knew the dangerous shoals so well.
The photo above, though, was included in the Sailing to Freedom book. It looks very similar to the larger version of my Melonseed skiffs, which is what caught my eye. What a fascinating backstory to the engraving.
A group of slaves escaped in this boat by sailing from Norfolk all the way to Philadelphia. That’s hard enough to do now, with modern weather forecasts and GPS, when you’re assured of getting help if you need it.
I can’t imagine doing that in the mid 1800s, when contact with anyone at all could mean capture and/or death.
Pony Gangs of Assateague Island
A great article about the park rangers who keep the peace between the rival gangs of ponies and people.
https://bittersoutherner.com/feature/2022/park-rangers-of-assateague-island
The ponies are wild, and don’t act like the domestic horses that some people expect. They bite and kick and steal food right out of your hand. And people who don’t know better make the mistake of fighting back.
“The ponies are big trash pandas. Like bears, but friendly-looking,” laughs park Assistant Manager Meghan Rhode. Almost anyone who has spent time on Assateague has a story of being run down by a horse for their sandwich or bag of chips, myself included. It sounds funny, and is somewhat in retrospect, but in the moment it’s fully terrifying. The rangers’ primary problem is preventing that by convincing people that these horses are wild.
“A big portion of our clientele grew up on farms and have been around horses — they love to tell you that. It’s harder to convince them that this is a different situation,” says Rhode. Sure, a domestic horse will bite or kick, but not in a territorial, attacking way. “They’re accustomed to their own space, pushing other people and horses around. … There are stallions here who are willing to battle pretty hard for territory, for food, for mares. That’s one of my biggest problems, getting people to stand up and back away from the horse.”
But the rangers clearly love what they do.
“We protect the resource from the people, the people from the resource, and sometimes people from people.”
Two in Use
Waterspout Rainbow : Winter Harbor 2022
By morning, the wind has swung around 180 degrees out of the north, and blowing hard. Within hours it goes from almost still to gusting over 40mph. Wind driven tides rush in through the northern inlet and pile up against the now closed southern end, submerging the dock again.
Breaking waves roll down the Bay, and we see more sand moving southward in the surf.
The temperature drops as quickly as the wind rose. I retreat to shelter along the inside of the island, behind what remains of the treeline windbreak. There are signs of the previous shorelines, old dunes, former marshes. The bleached bones of old cedar trees in what once was forest.
And artifacts of human history, too. A date carved in a picnic table still standing, somehow, for nearly 40 years.
We retreat to the house to stay warm. The sunshine of the morning is by afternoon replaced with wind driven rain. We read, do jigsaw puzzles, arrange shells and artifacts on the mantle, make soup, nap.
Just before sunset, the clouds begin to clear. A small waterspout is kicked up by the wind in the fast moving front, twisting and dancing over the water. It briefly catches the last bit of sun, and blooms into a brilliant golden rainbow before dissipating moments later.
Quite the epic finale to end the week.
Full Moon with Eclipse : Winter Harbor 2022
The slick ca’m carries through sunset, moonrise, and late into the evening. Perfect for a bonfire on the beach to welcome the lunar eclipse.
The boardwalk over the marsh points almost due west like a compass rose. From the end, there’s a broad view over the marsh in every direction – the setting sun tips spartina grass with hot copper, followed by the full moon rising in the east over the treeline.
The evening meal is dispatched quickly. We head to the beach with chairs, and gather driftwood on the way.
While still low on the horizon, the moon is draped with an eerie shroud from the mist on the water. It grows bluer and brighter as it climbs the sky, bathing the whole scene in cold astral light.
We build a fire below the high tide line to keep the chill off. It catches quickly and feels good, makes a nimbus of warmth and warm light in the clear cool night.
We won’t wait up for the eclipse, which doesn’t begin until 4am, but we know it’s coming. One of those astronomical events, like a solstice or equinox, that adds gravitas to the evening, even when you can’t actually see it.
Hours later, the last of the wood is used, and people start to wander off by ones and twos. Some will wake before dawn to watch our shadow pass over the moon, wrapped in blankets on the dock. Tom and I stay up past midnight until the fire is just a bed of glowing embers, then bury it in wet sand.
In a few hours, it will be erased by the tide, along with our footprints.
