Mudflat Mooring

Me and Sandy would go 

out on the mudflats at low tide 

catching soldier crabs

from 'Growing Up Alone' Robert Adamson.

When I arrived at the boat yesterday the tide was out. When I left the boat it was out even further. Not unusual of course, but the expanse of mudflat that I had to negotiate was considerable. At first the pulled dinghy scraped gravel then slithered on over grey mud lubricated buy pools. This is novel in this age: reminded me of Christmas holidays on the south side of this same waterway. Before people reclaimed the mudflats and made golden sand beaches. Where were soldier crabs that once mobbed about over there?

Initially I reacted to the prospects of wading and sledding a dinghy with regret. Ah stinking sticky mud ... then I mellowed; mindful of the silence, the absence of flashy yachts, of RIBs and designer footwear. May be, I thought, this is my style of place.

Later, a fellow in a homemade go cart raced down the Main Street, hammer and tongs. Over the next few hours he followed up with several more raucous runs.  The very air vibrating across the cove with the blat of a rough running two stroke. The absence of police settling like a cotton comforter over a newborn by the window in the afternoon as the sea breeze kicks in.