Cynthia Yachtman, Pelican
Tidal Lines
Kate Maxwell
The tide is out. Out far enough for him to lope, loose tongued, fur flat, and tail happy, along the path. Today, we cross the little footbridge, then up the steel-stepped walkway which winds us over banksia, rocks, and dark hollows. Dog knows the way. Up, up we climb to a neat rectangle of green glistening over the harbor city. I soak up the view, the sunshine. He soaks up the scent of other dogs’ piss, and the power of his long-stride run.
But when tide is high, ferries and wind pushing swell to shore, he becomes a manic barking beast. Hidden monsters lurk beneath the footbridge, ready to plunge dog and owner to the depths; all three feet of canine terror, yanking wildly on the lead, he snaps and growls at waves licking the little steel bridge. And each time, his backwards glance is one of deep betrayal. How could I lead him straight into the mouth of such a salty, quick-tongued sea beast?
But today, tide is out, sucking back its brim beyond the bridge, beyond his fear, and dog is happy again. Sun-baked seaweed, sulfurous decay, all delight his nostrils while repulsing mine. Today, no blue-green waters hide unknown depths and briny fiends. Harbor recedes, undressing rocks, and sand to expose the shore’s scraggy underwear, patterned with cigarette butts, plastic bottles, and fishing line. And now, such a sign of the times, a pale blue surgical mask laps in the shallows, floating like a fine-framed sea mollusk, flapping straps like tentacles. But I can’t reach it or the other ocean detritus to save whatever creature they may drown.
The tide is out under the footbridge, and my day. Nothing below but sand, pebbles, some washed out words, and sea foam. Further down the path, dog stretches haunches, sniffs, then yellow streams into loamy soil. Today, he likes big flat sky, big ocean, big world with all its noises and smells. I let him run, upset the bush turkeys nesting in the scrubby trees. He play-bows to the silly foul, lets them flutter to taller branches, until I bid him back, relatch, and head home.
Back to the kitchen, smelling of milk and slightly burnt toast. The rhythmic sloshing of a big tongue scooping water beats time to my dishwasher stacking. He will lie upon the lounge he’s not meant to lie on, dreaming of destroying waves. I will sit and stare at the computer, waiting for words to lap up to my screen.
The tide is out. Shallow, littered with debris and distractions but I will sit and wait. Sit and wait to catch a swell.
Kate Maxwell
The tide is out. Out far enough for him to lope, loose tongued, fur flat, and tail happy, along the path. Today, we cross the little footbridge, then up the steel-stepped walkway which winds us over banksia, rocks, and dark hollows. Dog knows the way. Up, up we climb to a neat rectangle of green glistening over the harbor city. I soak up the view, the sunshine. He soaks up the scent of other dogs’ piss, and the power of his long-stride run.
But when tide is high, ferries and wind pushing swell to shore, he becomes a manic barking beast. Hidden monsters lurk beneath the footbridge, ready to plunge dog and owner to the depths; all three feet of canine terror, yanking wildly on the lead, he snaps and growls at waves licking the little steel bridge. And each time, his backwards glance is one of deep betrayal. How could I lead him straight into the mouth of such a salty, quick-tongued sea beast?
But today, tide is out, sucking back its brim beyond the bridge, beyond his fear, and dog is happy again. Sun-baked seaweed, sulfurous decay, all delight his nostrils while repulsing mine. Today, no blue-green waters hide unknown depths and briny fiends. Harbor recedes, undressing rocks, and sand to expose the shore’s scraggy underwear, patterned with cigarette butts, plastic bottles, and fishing line. And now, such a sign of the times, a pale blue surgical mask laps in the shallows, floating like a fine-framed sea mollusk, flapping straps like tentacles. But I can’t reach it or the other ocean detritus to save whatever creature they may drown.
The tide is out under the footbridge, and my day. Nothing below but sand, pebbles, some washed out words, and sea foam. Further down the path, dog stretches haunches, sniffs, then yellow streams into loamy soil. Today, he likes big flat sky, big ocean, big world with all its noises and smells. I let him run, upset the bush turkeys nesting in the scrubby trees. He play-bows to the silly foul, lets them flutter to taller branches, until I bid him back, relatch, and head home.
Back to the kitchen, smelling of milk and slightly burnt toast. The rhythmic sloshing of a big tongue scooping water beats time to my dishwasher stacking. He will lie upon the lounge he’s not meant to lie on, dreaming of destroying waves. I will sit and stare at the computer, waiting for words to lap up to my screen.
The tide is out. Shallow, littered with debris and distractions but I will sit and wait. Sit and wait to catch a swell.