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diff --git a/75895-h/75895-h.htm b/75895-h/75895-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2201df2 --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/75895-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4790 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Great Beach | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + border-collapse: collapse; +} + +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td { padding: 0.25em; } + + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.centerbold {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.illowp40 {width: 40%;} +.illowp45 {width: 45%;} +.illowp48 {width: 48%;} +.illowp94 {width: 94%;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75895 ***</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</span></p> +<figure class="figcenter illowp48" id="i000_frontis" style="max-width: 153.625em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i000_frontis.jpg" alt="Sand dune and beach"> +</figure> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</span></p> + +<p class="centerbold">The<br> +Great<br> +Beach +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="Books_by_John_Hay">Books by John Hay:</h2> +</div> + + +<p class="center"><span class="allsmcap">A PRIVATE HISTORY</span><br> +<span class="allsmcap">THE RUN</span><br> +<span class="allsmcap">NATURE’S YEAR</span><br> +<span class="allsmcap">A SENSE OF NATURE</span> (with Arline Strong)<br> +<span class="allsmcap">THE GREAT BEACH</span> +</p> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</span></p> + +<h1>The<br> +Great<br> +Beach</h1> + +<p class="centerbold">JOHN HAY</p> + + +<p class="center">ILLUSTRATED BY DAVID GROSE</p> + + +<p class="center">Doubleday & Company, Inc.<br> +Garden City, New York<br> +1963 +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</span></p> + + + + +<p class="center">Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 63-18198<br> +Copyright © 1963 by John Hay<br> +All Rights Reserved<br> +Printed in the United States of America<br> +First Edition +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</span></p> + + + + +<p class="center">To Conrad and Mary Aiken<br> +Henry and Gertrude Kittredge +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="Foreword">Foreword</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I suppose that anyone writing another book about Cape +Cod can be convicted of temerity, in the face of such predecessors +as the three Henrys—Thoreau, Beston, and Kittredge—as well as +Dr. Wyman Richardson. However, each to his own eye. I write +about the Cape because of the circumstances of living there, long +enough to have begun to learn a little about it; also, the coast is +long and the sea will not stop with the outer beach. All Americans +who not only love nature but stand in awe of it will be +more and more hard put to explain their reasons, as we crowd +our magnificent land and diminish it in proportion to the size +of our demands. In <i>The Great Beach</i> are some of my reasons.</p> + +<p>I am grateful to Dr. Alfred C. Redfield, Dr. John M. Zeigler, +Mr. Joseph Chace, Dr. Loren C. Petry, Dr. Howard L. Sanders, +and Dr. Ransom Somers for various assistance during the writing +of this book, and hope they will not have any serious objections +to the way I have used such information as they may have given +me. This book also owes a great deal to the discerning and +useful criticisms made by Richard K. Winslow, of Doubleday.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="Contents">Contents</h2> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> </td> +<td class="tdc"> </td> +<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Foreword">Foreword</a></i></td> +<td class="tdr">vii</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">I</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#I">From a Distance</a></td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">II</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#II">An Unimagined Frontier</a></td> +<td class="tdr">8</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">III</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#III">The Resources of the Sea</a></td> +<td class="tdr">18</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">IV</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#IV">A Rhythmic Shore</a></td> +<td class="tdr">26</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">V</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#V">Dune Country</a></td> +<td class="tdr">35</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">VI</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#VI">A Change in History</a></td> +<td class="tdr">46</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">VII</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#VII">Barren Grounds</a></td> +<td class="tdr">56</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">VIII</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#VIII">A Landscape in Motion</a></td> +<td class="tdr">63</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">IX</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#IX">Who Owns the Beach?</a></td> +<td class="tdr">76</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">X</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#X">Deer Week</a></td> +<td class="tdr">87</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XI</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#XI">Impermanence Takes Its Stand</a></td> +<td class="tdr">93</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XII</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#XII">The Depths of Sight</a></td> +<td class="tdr">99</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XIII</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#XIII">The Flight of Birds</a></td> +<td class="tdr">107</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XIV</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#XIV">The Marsh</a></td> +<td class="tdr">116</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XV</td> +<td class="tdc">--</td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#XV">The Uses of Light</a></td> +<td class="tdr">124</td> +</tr> +</table> + + +</div> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</span></p> + +<p class="centerbold">The<br> +Great<br> +Beach +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">From a Distance</p> + + +<p>The Pilgrims who reached Cape Cod in 1620 had heard +of it before. It got its name in 1602 and had been touched on by +European seamen at least a century before that, and so when +the Pilgrims “... fell in with that land which is called Cape +Cod; the which being made and certainly known to be it, they +were not a little joyful.”</p> + +<p>Their coming had taken a long time, and they had passed over +“a tedious and dreadful” sea; but as Bradford’s history relates it +further: “... they now had no friends to welcome them, nor +inns to entertain or refresh their weather-beaten bodies, no +houses or much less towns to repair to, to seek for succor.”</p> + +<p>“And for ye season it was winter, and they that know ye +winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and +subject to cruell and fierce storms, dangerous to travel to known +places, much more to search an unknown coast. Besides, what +could they see but a hideous wilderness, full of wild beasts and +wild men? and what multitudes there might be of them they +knew not. Neither could they, as it were, go up to ye top of +Pisgah, to view from this wilderness a more goodly country to +feed their hopes; for which way soever they turned their eyes +(save upward to the heavens) they could have little solace or +content in respect of outward objects. For summer being done, +all things stand upon them with a weather-beaten face; and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> +whole country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild +and savage hue. If they looked behind them, there was the mighty +ocean which they had passed, and was now as a main barrier +and gulf to separate them from the civil parts of the world.”</p> + +<p>Now, nearly 350 years later, that lone land reaching out into +the mighty ocean seems to be full of the “solace and content with +respect to outward objects” which the Pilgrims lacked. Roads, +gas stations, shopping centers, and a continually increasing number +of houses, proclaim it as human territory, another populated +home ground from which we have to go far to be separated from +civilization. The simple, raw existence which the Pilgrims not +only endured but anticipated has been replaced by a world of +goods, which is not to say that we do not have to have a fortitude +of our own, made inevitable, in great measure, by the very abundance +we have achieved.</p> + +<p>The Cape Cod of 1620 was more or less the same in its general +outline as it is now, although the original woodland has been +cut down, or burned over, to be replaced by less varied trees, +much of the topsoil has eroded and blown away, and the shore +line altered in the course of natural change. Superficially at +least, it has been tamed, and in most areas the primal, unknown +wildness is hard to imagine. The last thing you would expect +to find on pulling in to a parking lot above a Cape Cod beach +would be desolate wilderness, though if there is one, wilderness +being in short supply these days, it would be well worth the +effort to discover; but the sea, from which we are separated both +by its vastness and the difference between water and air, could +answer the description, and also the sands that define its limits.</p> + +<p>Cape Cod’s Outer Beach, stretching for forty miles from the +tip of the Cape at Provincetown to the end of Monomoy Island +is not undiscovered country. Many men have walked it. Planes +skim over it in no time at all, and the beach buggies bruise it +with impunity. Still, the marks we make on it are all erased in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> +time. The sea and sand insist on their own art. The beach is in +a continuous state of remaking and invites discovery. It was first +called “Great” so far as I know, by Henry David Thoreau. Otherwise +it has been known for a long time as the Outer Beach, the +Outer Shore, or in more familiar terms as the Back Side. Now it +forms a major part of the new National Seashore Park—in the +process of establishment—and is therefore not owned by individuals, +or the towns in which they reside, but by the people of the +United States. It is under national protection and possession at +the same time, so how we approach and treat its future is a very +great responsibility, which is appropriate enough.</p> + +<p>The beach, standing out against the sea, is a further limit to +America before it shelves off into the Atlantic depths. For most +travelers it means the end of a highway, a place of summer +sands. It is in fact one end of a whole continent of roads, of +communications, of the vast and intricate business of human +passage. In a sense it used to be the other way around. With all +the known parts of the civilized world behind them, the Pilgrims +found in this beach not an end but a beginning, whatever it +might entail, and that of course, is why they went there.</p> + +<p>This is an age in which we are able to ignore or bypass the +“tedious and dreadful” highway of the sea—city dwellers, road, +rocket, car, and plane makers that we are—to the extent that we +too may find it again for the first time. The beach, lying by the +sea and sea invested, is always ready for a new kind of attention +in a new world. That is the nature of the place. Cape Cod itself, +now and ultimately, is at the disposition of the sea rather than +human enterprise.</p> + +<p>The Cape is a narrow peninsula, a little terminal arm jutting +out in to the Atlantic, constructed of loose material left by the +last glacier some 20,000 years ago. Its upper part, starting beyond +High Head at Truro and forming the Provincetown hook, +or hood, is of recent origin. It lacks the cliffs that stand over the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> +beach from a mile or so north of Highland Light to as far as the +Nauset Coast Guard Beach at Eastham, and for the most part +has a history of deposition and accretion rather than removal. +It was formed by storms, tides, and currents, piling in sand and +other materials from the shore to the south, over bars and reefs +of glacial debris. The sand is still packing up around Race Point, +as it is also adding to the shore south of Nauset to the tip end of +Monomoy Island, while storms take it away from other parts of +the shore line. Within living memory a large island called Billinsgate, +on which there was a lighthouse and at one time a “Try +Yard” for whales, disappeared under the surface of Cape Cod +Bay. It now appears as a shoal at low tide and is otherwise covered +over by water, although the rocky lighthouse foundations +still show above the surface in all but the highest tides. On the +Bay side the shore line has been filled in in some areas, while +it has receded in others, revealing for example, the bones of +horses and cows in the bank at the head of a beach, which were +once presumably, some distance behind it. Many a cottage owner +after a storm has found his living-room floor with nothing below +it but the tide.</p> + +<p>Over the centuries great changes have occurred in the nature +and extent of marshlands, inlets, ponds, estuaries, and beaches. +No year, or even month, goes by without some alteration in the +shore line. These changes, not always obvious, sometimes violent +and immediate, are not such as to threaten the physical existence +of Cape Cod for many thousands of years to come, but they are +of the kind that accentuate its close relationship to water and +tides and weather. As the map makers are well aware, it is not a +static piece of land. It moves.</p> + +<p>The trunk of the Cape starts out from the mainland and then +that slender curving arm juts up and out into the water with a +kind of brave assertion beyond the continental limits; but it is +the shape and sweep of waves and sands, of molding and at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> +same time of pulling away that strikes you most about it, as if it +were a conception to be made or discarded, standing out in its +trial. The whole physical earth, in spite of its apparent constancies, +its orbital speed, the speed of light, the regularity of +the tides, the fine, exact balances to life, is subject to rhythmic +change, or in a deeper sense, to re-creation.</p> + +<p>From 20,000 feet up, Cape Cod looks very much as it does +on topographic maps, its heights and depths eliminated, a flat +level land of sandy margins and wide green patches emerging +out of the sea. In fact, with all its glacial lakes and ponds—between +three and four hundred in number—its streams, marshes, +bays, coves, and inlets, it might seem to consist as much of water +as of earth. On a clear day at a lower altitude, skirting or passing +over the shore line, you can see configurations of sand, the slopes +and curves of the shoals, the white swirls and scallops under +water made by currents and tides. The sea sparkles, and explodes +with light where the sun strikes it directly. The spilling +waves make small white accents along the shore. Tilting in the +heights, you get a sense of mobility on a great scale. All the +close, pressing impressions of locality are replaced by the roving +of the waters, the islands of the mapped world floating there, +the height and weight and emptiness of the sky.</p> + +<p>However far their ageless impunity may reach, the world’s +argument is that Cape Cod and its Outer Beach are under human +guidance, surveillance, and authority. Those who come +there bring their own distance with them. If we are not yet +world-minded, we are world engaged. This is not a cast-off, self-sufficient +countryside any longer, and it has lost most, if not all, +of the look of a bleak, cut-over, and yet habitable seaside land +that it had in the nineteenth century, when the inhabitants still +depended on the sea for their livelihood, when you could smell +the fish and hear the sermons on its shores.</p> + +<p>An estimated 300,000 people visit the Cape during the summer,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> +or even more, depending on the tides of economy and +change, but after they have gone there are 80,000 year-round +residents left, with more to be expected in the future. So, in spite +of its stretches of comparatively uninhabited sands and its +wooded areas, the Cape is caught up in the human scheme of +things, and we can hardly avoid looking at it with modern eyes, +for good or ill. We own it, and that is the way we are inclined +to see it, not for its sake but ours. All roads lead to a Cape Cod +beach, or to Los Angeles, or Yellowstone. Every place is invested +with human importunity, and the crowd will tell you where you +are.</p> + +<p>Drive down any of the great concrete highways of the nation +in the heat of the summer along with thousands, or millions, +through a landscape whose scale affected our ideas of size to +begin with, and you realize that Americans have an affinity for +distance—which is also a capacity for laying the distance bare. +We have learned this from our continent. We have learned how +to exploit, turning the native, active riches of a great land into +passive objects of our will, and we have taken a greatness from +it for our own. While we have transformed our surroundings, we +ourselves have been transformed without being altogether aware +of the debt we owe.</p> + +<p>Abstracted, in the summer months especially, to the terms of +the contemporary world, some of Cape Cod’s more crowded areas +have a familiar, continental look. They are covered with asphalt, +cars, motels, cheap housing, shops full of grotesque souvenirs +with no relation to the place they serve, and they amount, when +you come right down to it, to receiving grounds for power, made +by a conquering civilization. Will it be the same on the moon? +The great scale is in us, the effort and the risk of desolation.</p> + +<p>The beach’s openness is nearly filled with bodies, lying everywhere, +or sitting, talking, absorbing the sun, or dashing suddenly +into the relatively cold water, shouting, jumping, and splashing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> +there, and then returning, flesh in warmth and radiance, performing +the blessed ritual of doing nothing.</p> + +<p>This hot surface, this wide open brilliance of sand, water, +and sky is a summertime release for those in want. We claim +it, and fill it with human demands; and yet it keeps its distance, +resisting our bland assumption of authority.</p> + +<p>Clouds like heaps of spun silk float up across the sky. The +low waves splash along the sands, very lightly to the ear. Surfcasting +rods are lodged in the sand, leaning out toward the +water. Offshore, a white tern rises fluttering after a dive into +the water, and a herring gull, large and deliberate by contrast, +beats low over the surface. Behind all the crowd and the voices, +hanging over like the intense and heavy sun, is a stillness, a +suspension. Perhaps it is the soul of summer, that gives a provision +of relief for those in want; and if we wait and watch +there might be more to this beach and sea than what we came +for. Waiting, in fact, seems to be its essence, since it gives no +answer to what it is, being a wide, surface brightness, a tidal +beat, a sounding whose monumental depths are concealed, suggesting +too, that we might wait for it forever and know nothing.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">An Unimagined Frontier</p> + + +<p>One afternoon in the middle of June I set off from Race +Point at Provincetown, carrying a pack and sleeping bag, with +Nauset Light Beach in Eastham, twenty-five miles away, as my +destination, and my purpose simply to be on the beach, to see +it and feel it for whatever it turned out to be, since most of my +previous visits had been of the sporadic hop, skip, and jump kind +to which our automotivated lives seem to lead us.</p> + +<p>The summer turmoil was not yet in full voice but the barkers +were there on behalf of beach-buggy tours over the dunes, and +a sight-seeing plane flew by; cars drew up and droned away, +and families staggered up from the beach with their load of +towels, shoes, bags, or portable radios. The beach did not contain +quite the great wealth of paper, cans, bottles, and general garbage +that it would later on, in July and August, but one of the +first things to catch my eye as I lunged down on to the sands +was an electric-light bulb floating in the water, a can of shaving +soap, the remains of a rubber doll, and a great scattering of sliced +onions—probably thrown off a fishing boat.</p> + +<p>The air was dancing with heat. The sun seemed to have +the power to glare through all things. With the exception of a +camper’s tent on the upper part of the beach, and a few isolated +gray shacks perched on dune tops behind it, there was nothing +ahead but the wide belt of sand curving around one unseen corner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> +after another with the flat easing and stretching sea beside +me. Two boys waved to me from where they were perched high +up on a dune, and I waved back.</p> + +<p>Then I heard an insistent, protesting bird note behind me, +and a piping plover flew past. It was very pale, and sand colored, +being a wild personification of the place it lived in. It suddenly +volplaned down the slope of the beach ahead of me, fluttering, +half disappearing in holes made by human feet, side-winged, +edged away, still fluttering, in the direction of the shore line, +and when it reached the water, satisfied, evidently, that it had +led me far enough, it flew back. These birds nest on the beach +above the high-tide line, and like a number of other species, try +to lead intruders away when they come too close to their eggs +and young.</p> + +<p>With high, grating cries, terns flew over the beach and low +over the water, occasionally plummeting in after fish. Among +the larger species, principally common terns, there were some +least terns—a tiny, dainty version of the “sea swallow,” chasing +each other back and forth. They have the graceful, sharply defined +bodies and deep wingbeat of the other terns, but in their +littleness and excitability they seem to show a kind of baby anger.</p> + +<p>Also there were tree swallows gathering and perching on the +hot, glittering sand, and on smooth gray driftwood just below +the dunes. It was a band of them, adults, and young hatched +during the early spring, chittering and shining with their brilliant +blue-green backs and white bellies.</p> + +<p>It seemed to me that out of these birds—my unwilling or indifferent +companions—came a protest, the protest of a desert +in its beauty, an ancient sea land claiming its rarity, with these +rare inhabitants, each with its definition and assertion, each +having the color and precision of life and place, out of an unknown +depth of devising.</p> + +<p>Behind the beach at Provincetown and Truro are eight square<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> +miles of dunes, making a great series of dips and pockets, innumerable +smooth scourings, hollows within wide hollows. +Standing below their rims are hills, mounds, and cones, chiseled +by the wind, sometimes flattened on the top like mesas. These +dunes give an effect of motion, rolling, dipping, roving, dropping +down and curving up like sea surfaces offshore. When I +climbed the bank to see them I heard the clear, accomplished +notes of a song sparrow. There were banks of rugosa roses in +bloom, with white or pink flowers sending off a lovely scent, and +the dunes were patched with the new green of beach grass, bayberry, +and beach plum, many of the shrubs looking clipped and +rounded, held down by wind and salt spray. The purple and +pink flowers of the beach pea, with purselike petals, were in +bloom too, contrasting with dusty miller with leaf surfaces like +felt, a soft, clear grayish-green. Down at the bottom of the hollows +the light and wind catching heads of bunch grass, pinkish +and brown, waved continually; and the open sandy slopes were +swept as by a free hand with curving lines and striations.</p> + +<p>A mile or so at sea, over the serene flatness of the waters, a +fishing boat moved very slowly by. I started down the beach +again, following another swallow that was twisting and dipping +in leafy flight along the upper edge of the beach. On the tide +line slippery green sea lettuce began to glimmer as if it had an +inner fire, reflecting the evening sun. I stopped somewhere a +mile or two north of Highland Light in Truro, built a small fire +of driftwood to heat up a can of food, and watched a bar appearing +above the water as the tide ebbed. Low white waves conflicted +and ran across a dome of sand, occasionally bursting up like +hidden geysers.</p> + +<p>The terns were still crying and diving as the sun’s metal +light, slanting along the shore, began to turn a soft yellow, to +spread and bloom. They hurried back and forth, as if to make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> +use of the time left them, and fell sharply like stones into the +shimmering road of light that led across the water.</p> + +<p>Where I live on the upper Cape, that part of it which lies +between the Cape Cod canal and Orleans, the land heads out +directly to the sea, toward the east from the continental west. +Cape Cod Bay lies to the north and Nantucket Sound to the +south. The arm of the lower Cape turns in the Orleans area and +heads up on a north-south axis, the head of it, or hand if you +like, curving around so that the sandy barrens in the Provincetown +area are oriented in an east to west direction again. I am +used to looking toward Kansas to see the setting sun, and from +the curving shore line at Truro I had the illusion that it was +setting in the north and that when it rose the next morning it +appeared to be located not very far from where it set, a matter +of ninety or a hundred degrees. In fact it does set closer to the +north at this time of year, and along the flat ocean horizon this +becomes more clear to the eye, as well as its relative position at +dawn and its arc during the day. On the open beach in spring +and summer you are not only at the sun’s mercy in a real sense, +but you are also under wider skies. In the comparative isolation +of the beach, which is convex, slanting steeply toward the water, +and therefore hides its distances, I felt reoriented, turned out +and around through no effort of my own, and faced in many +possible directions.</p> + +<p>Shortly before sundown a beach buggy, curtains at its windows +and a dory attached, lumbered slowly down some preordained +ruts in the sand, and then a smaller one passed by at the +top of the low dunes behind me. Fishing poles were slung along +the outside of both machines. It was getting to be a good time +to cast for striped bass.</p> + +<p>I sat on the sands and listened to the sonorous heave and +splash of low waves. The sun, like a colossal red balloon filled +with water, was sinking in to the horizon. It swelled, flattened,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> +and disappeared with a final rapidity, leaving a foaming, fiery +band behind it. I suddenly heard the wild, trembling cry of a +loon behind me, and then saw it fly over, heading north. The +wind grew cool, after a hot day when the light shone on metallic, +glittering slow waters, and sharp, pointed beach grasses clicked +together, while I watched the darkness falling around me.</p> + +<p>A small seaplane flew by at low altitude, parallel to the shore. +A sliver of a moon appeared and then a star; and then single +lights began to shine on the horizon, while from the direction +of Highland Light an arm of light shot up and swung around. +A fishing boat passed slowly by with a light at its masthead and +two—port and starboard—at its stern. A few night-flying moths +fluttered near me. The sky began to be massive with its stars. I +thought of night’s legitimacies now appearing, the natural claim +of all these single lights on darkness, and then, making my bed +in a hollow just above the beach, I lowered down into infinity, +waking up at about one o’clock in the morning to the sound +of shouting, a strange direct interruption to the night. It was +the loud implacable voice of the human animal, something very +wild in itself, filling the emptiness.</p> + +<p>“For Chrisake bring her higher up! I can’t have her dig in +that way.” The tide had come in and someone was having trouble +maneuvering his beach buggy along the thin strip of sand +now available.</p> + +<p>The light of dawn opened my eyes again before the sun showed +red on the horizon, and I first saw the tiny drops of dew on tips +and stems of beach grass that surrounded me. A sparrow sang, and +then, somewhere behind the dunes, a prairie warbler with sweet +notes on an ascending scale.</p> + +<p>When I started walking again I caught sight of a young fox. +Its fur was still soft and woolly and its gait had a cub’s limpness +where it moved along the upper edge of the beach. I wished the +young one well, though I suspected it might have an uncomfortable +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>life. In spite of an excessive population of rabbits, and their +role in keeping it down, foxes have not been too highly regarded +on the Cape. In recent years they seem to have been a skinny +and somewhat dilapidated bunch for the most part, suffering +from parasitic skin diseases, and ticks in season. I once saw a +fox out on an asphalt road sliding along on his chin and side, +shoving and dragging himself in such a frantic way that I began +to feel very itchy myself. I have heard them referred to in scornful +way as “spoilers,” fond of scavenging and rolling in dead meat. +In other words, they are smelly, diseased and, to add another +epithet “tricky,” not to be trusted.</p> + +<p>Yet this cub exploring an early morning on the sands had a +future, however limited, and I remembered the lively trot of +foxes when they are in good health, and their intelligence and +curiosity, and simply their right to whatever special joys they +might inherit.</p> + +<p>I carried a pair of field glasses with me, along with the somewhat +thoughtlessly assembled equipment I wore on my back and +which seemed increasingly heavy as time went on. When not too +conscious of my burden I would use the glasses to bring an inland +or offshore bird closer to me. I noticed five eider ducks across +the troughs of the waves, a remnant of the thousands that winter +off the Cape along with such other sea birds as brant, Canada +geese, scoters, mergansers, old squaws, and various members of +the auk family. I passed a dead gannet lying on the sand. It had +been badly oiled, reminding me of the hazards of jettisoned +tanker or freighter oil to all these water birds which land on +the sea to rest or feed.</p> + +<p>There were a number of kingbirds on the dune rims, and they +kept dropping down over the beach in their special way, to +hover with fast wingbeat and flutter after flying insects. I heard +the grating call of redwings, indicating marshy areas inland of +the beach, but the cliffs above began to increase until they were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> +100 to 150 feet high or more, and the sun was so fierce that I +had little interest in trying to scale them to see what was on the +other side.</p> + +<p>I plodded on, noticing very little after a while, my attention +blunted, reduced to seeing that one foot got in front of the other. +The more level upper parts of the beach provided fairly good +walking, but the sand was soft, and to relieve my aching muscles +I would then angle down to the water’s edge where it was firmer, +and there I was obliged to walk with one leg below the other +because of the inclination of the beach. So I would return to the +upper beach again and push ahead. I walked on, very hot and +slow, seeing no one for miles until I came up to a group of +bathers below a road and parking lot giving access to the beach, +of the kind that are scattered along its reaches; and there I refilled +my canteen at a cottage and went on.</p> + +<p>I found that if I rested too long during this hike I had little +desire to go on again, so I confined myself to an army “break” +of ten minutes every hour. Renewed walking unlimbered me a +little and the wind off the water cooled my sweating skin. I +listened to the sound of the waves. In addition to their rhythmic +plunge and splash, their breathing, they clashed occasionally +with a sound like the breaking of heavy glass, the falling of timber, +or a load of bricks.</p> + +<p>I passed what was left of two shipwrecks during the day, a +reminder of the dangers that still face ships along this coast +with its fogs, its shifting winds, its storms, the hidden, treacherous +offshore bars. The sands often reveal the timbers of old ships. +One day their ribs, sodden and dark, barnacle encrusted, may +reach up out of oblivion, and not long after that the water buries +them under tons of sand. From them a local history calls out for +recognition. Thousands of ships over three centuries wrecked +on shoals, engulfed by violent seas, men with the dark of doom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> +in them, to drown or to survive, and only a few timbers left to +declare the ultimate dangers and their terror.</p> + +<p>I was not in Death Valley, or on a raft at sea. My walk was +not unusually long, and I could leave the beach if I had to, but +the enormity of the area filled me more and more. It had so +much in it that was without recourse. Its emptiness, the great +tidal range beyond it and through it, the raw heartbeat of the +waves, the implacable sun, established the kind of isolation and +helplessness in me which the commerce and community of our +lives tries so hard to disguise. Even the birds, I began to think, +were more secure than I. They had their strong bright threads of +cognizance to the areas they came to, the water, the sands, the +marsh. They were fixed in entity and grace, eating what was +theirs by evolution to be eaten, using land and air in the ways +that had come to them, knowing this place and all places like it +in terms of its bounds and boundlessness, meeting its naked eye +in the ways they had been sent to do.</p> + +<p>I started off in the morning admiring the brilliance of the sun, +the small shadows from the dunes and across the beach, through +driftwood, isolated beach plants and tidal wrack, with the wide +flooding of light ahead and the variation in reflected light across +the sea. I felt the sea moving quietly beside me. The waves +heaved and sighed and spray was tossed lightly above the sand. +Everything was continuous, untroubled, and deliberate; but as +the day wore on the sun became my enemy, and I had very little +rage or resource in me to fight it with. I was not fitted to environmental +stability, like a bird, or fox or fish. I found myself in +an area of whose reaches I had never been wholly aware, and +in me there was no mastery. The sun was not only hostile. It was +an ultimate, an impossibility; and the waters beside me began +to deepen from their pleasant daytime sparkle and freshness +into an incalculable realm which I had hardly entered. I was +touching on an unimagined frontier.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p> + +<p>I spent my second night on the beach a few miles from Nauset +Light where I left it the following morning. It was in the +South Wellfleet area, and as I started to sleep on the sand a little +above the high-tide line, I remembered that this was about the +same place where a fishing boat had been wrecked two years +before and two men drowned. I had seen the boat, with its cargo +of fish, and some of the men’s clothing strewn along the shore, +and I had heard a little about the depths of their ordeal. Their +story haunted me; and then I began to feel that I might be +caught by the tide while I was asleep. There were only about +twelve feet between the bottom of a steep cliff and the high-tide +line. I would soon be lying on a narrow shelf at the sea’s +edge. So as the vague thought of being engulfed began to invade +me, I took up my pack and sleeping bag again, retraced +my steps down the beach, and found a way to the top of the +cliff, where I spent the night in another hollow.</p> + +<p>The light of dawn, lifting quickly out of the sea, flooding into +the range of low-lying land, woke me up again, and it signaled +to the birds, who started singing in all the thickets and heath +around me with a sweet, high, shrill intensity, a kind of automatic +worship; and after a while they quieted down again.</p> + +<p>Little dirt roads dropped back from headlands through green +slopes covered with bearberry and patches of yellow-flowered +Hudsonia, or “poverty grass,” and there were hollows dipping +back inland, and woods of stunted pitch pine. From the top of +the cliff I watched the sun starting to send light running across +the blue table of the sea, making it glitter and move. The intensity +of light and heat began to grow steadily as I walked down +the beach again for the last stretch toward Nauset.</p> + +<p>The beach is not so very far from where I live, or for that +matter where anyone lives on the Cape. It is a few miles down +the road, beyond the trees; and yet when I came back from my +walk I felt as if I had been at enormous remove from my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +surroundings, caught out where I might have feared to be. The long +line of sand and surf, the intensity of the sun, the cover of stars +had come close enough to put me in council with that which had +no answers. I was in awe of nature; and I understood that the +sun and sea could be our implacable enemies. It was in this +context that I saw our human world as subject to a stature that +it never made.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">The Resources of the Sea</p> + + +<p>Sit inland on the ground on a sunny day, and color, +shadows, sound, substance, novelty in great detail, invade the +smallest areas. One flower may attract many species of insects, +brilliantly patterned and colored, flicking around, crawling, eating, +gathering pollen, in any number of arresting ways, and the +growth of plants around you, the shape of leaves, the general +stir of things comes running like a carnival.</p> + +<p>On the beach you might see a lone dragger lifting and falling, +moving slowly parallel to the shore, beyond the measured fall of +the green surf. A herring gull flies by. The vast sky swings overhead; +the wind flies down the sand. Purple stones, driftwood, an +occasional dead skate or dogfish comes to your attention as you +walk on. A black crow pecks at seaweed far ahead. A sanderling +flits by. You notice a finger sponge attached to a large mussel or +a sea scallop, broken loose and washed in from offshore beds, and +that seems to be all, in a relatively empty world; but between +these single things, a grain of sand, a stone, a bird or bird track, +a wave, you become conscious of a bounty of space.</p> + +<p>The sea and its shores are still not caught, still relatively immune +to human claims. Fill them with knowledge and with +crowds and they still escape us, outrunning us like the sunlight +on the water. Specifically, this age which is able to measure +everything but mystery, might tell you just how capacious the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> +oceans are. They comprise two thirds of the earth’s surface; they +have a close relationship to the atmosphere and are in large +measure responsible for our weather; and we know, with the +assurance of conquerors, that if all else fails we may be able to +save the human race from dying of thirst and starvation by extracting +water and food from them, providing our atomic wastes +do not prohibit it. We are also learning how to mine the ocean +floors for their minerals, how to harness the tides, and how to +use their depths for concealment.</p> + +<p>Oceanography is one of the great modern sciences and it has +revealed mountains, rifts, plains, and canyons on a scale that +would astonish us if we saw them on earth, as it has also brought +us more knowledge of marine animals at all depths. It has made +great contributions to the restless modern mind. How can we +look at the sea without at some time thinking of our earth’s +submerged geology, gigantic, uneroded by wind, sun, or rain, in +calm waters inhabited by strange aquatic lives?</p> + +<p>Strange is still the word for them. No amount of assessment +of the sea’s contents quite translates them for us. What, for example, +is a fish? What is that flat creature the skate lying there +on the sand, with its tough hide and the small slit of a mouth on +the same side as its belly?</p> + +<p>There is an aquarium at Woods Hole with a collection of +many of the kinds of fish that inhabit the waters off Cape Cod. +They seem foreign, weird, almost unexampled when you see +them in their captured state. I saw a woman standing in front +of one of the windows looking at some toadfish, little fat animals +with great mouths, squat, with round-edged fleshy fins that gave +the appearance of warts and knobs, expertly camouflaged in +varied patterns so that they can at once sink in and become a +part of the bottom: “Oh!” she cried. “Horrible!”</p> + +<p>All the others there become more than the term “fish” when +you see them suspended behind glass, floating in their own world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> +of water, strangers in the perfection of their own remoteness. +Their dull jaws open and close as they breathe. Their filmy, +diaphanous fins wave lightly and loosely. Their flicking eyes +pass you by, with a kind of self-enclosed abstractness, a stiffness, +as if they had not seen you at all, and no doubt the blurred +human form means very little to them. The glass separates the +world of water from the world of air. Their bodies curve deliberately +and slowly, and then suddenly switch into an unsuspected +quickness, while we tourists shove and crowd and gawk +from our unbridgeable distance.</p> + +<p>At other windows the rays and skates, with fins fused to +bodies like wafers, wave through the water. Bottom fish suddenly +disappear in puffs of sand. The lean, long sand shark, +primitive, tough, swims with infinite smoothness back and forth, +an expression of coldness, an incarnate simplicity.</p> + +<p>They are all unknown, not of our race, and giving the unknown +the old credit of fear, they <i>are</i> horrible, monsters in their +realm, with intercommunications, receptions, that we are unable +to touch.</p> + +<p>An aquarium is a luxury. Most of the fish we see are dead, a +boatload of wet, cold, slippery white and gray flounder, cod, +or haddock just come into port, or dying, like a striped bass +caught by a fisherman casting off the beach—flipping on the +sands with all its cool brightness still alive, a slippery, lucent +sea green. The color loss is quick as a fish dies, leaving the rippling +shades of its great medium behind.</p> + +<p>The world of ocean color comes inland in the spring with +the alewives that migrate from salt water up inlets, streams, +and estuaries on both sides of Cape Cod. They are silver, like +the sea they come from, with backs of gray green, and in a +shallow stream they seem to reflect the colors of the season, +having in fact the ability to change the pigment in their skin so as +to blend with their surroundings. They mouth the water and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> +stare forward with their big eyes, running upstream with the +unswerving directness of their need to reproduce—which gives +us at least one reassuring alliance with them!—and being of +a fairly large size compared with most fresh-water fish, they +have a look of marine capacities, a fast-schooling fish made for +water masses, great sweeping currents, and tides.</p> + +<p>Even the alewives, which migrate by the hundred thousands, +are only suggestive of the far running but hidden nature of +the oceanic depths. Most of us, failing a glass-bottom boat or +a glass-sided submarine, have to stand on the beach and take in +the vast motions of the sea surface with only the vaguest idea +of what is happening below. Sometimes it looks like a bowl of +dazzling, dashing light, and at others a gray, monotonous range +under a raw wind with white-groined waves constantly moving +across its distances. The sea takes all the light and air, the +storms, clouds, moon, and stars, in endless, various reflections +over its watery reaches, with a monumental acceptance.</p> + +<p>Are there not a thousand ways to describe the sea which in +their sum amount to inscrutability? How can you translate its +abundance even by counting so many thousands of protozoa in +a drop of water? Who can fathom the range of appetite it contains, +the ferocity of the life its amplitude allows?</p> + +<p>One day in early fall I traveled from the Cape with a party +of people in a chartered boat, heading for an area some ten +or fifteen miles out. The offshore breezes coasted over +smooth, sun-bright waters that carried some of the land’s litter +with them, sticks, leaves, petals, and even butterflies. At one +point a dragonfly skimmed past us; and silky seeds of milkweed +and dandelions went sailing and twisting by to land eventually +where they could never take root. Farther out, oceanic birds like +jaegers, shearwaters, and phalaropes began to appear. When +we were plowing out across the open ocean with its short-crested +waves we came upon a broad path of waters which were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> +foaming and flashing and leaping, a white windrow of fish +flipping violently above the surface, lasting perhaps a mile or +more. Evidently we had come upon an area that was rich in +plankton, attracting many small fish, attacked in turn by larger +ones. What we were seeing was part of the classic food chain +that leads, in terms of size, from microscopic plants and animals +to whales. The sea was splitting its sides with riches, and a kind +of savagery that most of us hardly dare admit, although as a race +we are not so far removed from it ourselves.</p> + +<p>As the glass on the aquarium window separates the spectator +from the world of the fish, so the long nearly unbroken line +of the Outer Beach stands between us and the vast, alien reaches +of the North Atlantic. It is not <i>our</i> natural environment, and so +we can legitimately call it treacherous, sullen, cold, and grim, +and even in its hours of brilliance and warmth it seems to lead +us off in no terms we can call familiar. It is full of fickle changes, +fogs, and storms, unpredictable shifts in mood. We are still +unable to set forth on the open ocean without the skill of a +sailor or the protection that a technical civilization affords us.</p> + +<p>Yet our neighbor the sea provides the amplitude and even, +being still relatively unaffected by human ownership, the regenerative +power of what is both dangerous and undiscovered +in the universe. All its shores are washed by a capacity. If it is +constant in peril for us, and for its own voracious inhabitants, +it is also beneficent as a medium for life. Those tidal rhythms, +watery colors, and reflections are translated into living organisms +whose uncounted numbers are assured by their vast and relatively +temperate home.</p> + +<p>We only see a small part of those numbers, at least consciously, +since sea water may be swarming with invisible life, but during +spring, summer, and early fall, the sea’s bounty often reveals +itself. Countless moon jellies for example, pulse through waters +inland of the sea during the springtime or in Cape Cod Bay,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> +where I have seen comb jellies in great profusion during late +summer. Watching them, it is not only their primitive, brainless +nature, or their numbers, that has seemed incredible to me, +but their approximation to their environment.</p> + +<p>It has been estimated that jellyfish are 95 per cent water. +Dried out, they resolve into almost nothing. How could such +evanescent creatures be predators, killing and ingesting living +organisms? When you see such transparent flower-animals it is +even difficult to believe that they have the nerves and muscles to +be able to pulse through the water; but their chemical balance, +their physical responses have a direct relationship with the sea +water, whose salts are in them. Salt water is a liquid medium for +life, a blood that circulates through the creatures of the sea. So +close is the association of the sea and its lives, though each +species has its unique kind of locomotion, respiration, aggression, +its own way of feeding and being food, joining in the +employment of energy, that it is almost tempting to inquire +whether the sea does not have an organic nature of its own. I +will not get very far by suggesting that a medium and environment +“knows” anything beyond what all nature knows, but this +primal “mother” great provider and provided, has its own deep +rights in the realm of being.</p> + +<p>In summer and into fall you can see thousands of small fish +schooling in the shallow tidal edges of Cape Cod Bay, moving +slowly until approached, when those closest to you swing forward, +or run, rush, and circle as need be, the whole crowd sometimes +escaping with a simultaneous, sideward sweep. They are +all spontaneity, life on the run, endowed with limited attributes +from the point of a “higher animal” but of strict extravagance +in form and action, born of ocean waters. They suggest the incomparable, +swimming out of range.</p> + +<p>There is something of this suggestion in many specific aspects +of animal, or even plant, life in the sea. In a sense their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> +fascination lies in what has not yet been discovered about them, +but just as much, from the average human point of view, in the +way their actions are those of the sea rather than the land to +which we are accustomed. In fact all of us are obliged to make +surface discoveries a great deal of the time, even with respect +to what is around us, or even inside us, like fishermen following +the seasonal movement of fish, sometimes predictable but often +hidden and unreliable, or students who chase after migratory +birds in planes. So the sight of grunions wiggling in California +sands, depositing and fertilizing their eggs, bound to a complex +interrelationship of spring tides and the moon, still excites our +curiosity, being a phenomenon that is not fully understood, +taking place in a proximate but different world.</p> + +<p>Migrant fish, like the alewives, may return not only during +the same season each year but very close to the same day as a +run of the year before. Perhaps the cycles involving sea and +climate average out very accurately, but it is too complex a +phenomenon to say that it goes like clockwork. Tides are measurable +but constantly changing in time and amplitude. Environmental +conditions in sea water are various and the seas coordinate +relationship to the atmosphere is an elaborate one. +Rhythmic response in an organism may be simple and spontaneous—like +a fucus, or rockweed, only ready to spawn after +a period of exposure at low tide—and it will have its causes, but +the causes themselves are greatly complex in nature.</p> + +<p>The sea’s discovery will not be made by factory ships that +process their huge catches of fish, by killer submarines chasing +after whales, or by mining equipment. We can physically affect +its life with our one-sided power, but it will remain protean and +indifferent and we will go on imagining our conquest of it.</p> + +<p>On this overdiscovered and overexploited earth the sea remains +a wilderness, a resource not of goods but of what is rich +and wild. That which we have been unable to use up, or harry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> +to extinction, has the power to renew. The sea is a positive +mystery. I hear the surf’s continual breathing in the distance; +I see the stars that literally cover the sky over the beach on a +winter’s night like white animal plankton in the spring waters; +and I realize that I know no more about them than I know about +myself. The depths are still ahead, with the fear and the temptation +that the undiscovered arouses in us.</p> + +<p>All of us are drawn to the sea’s edge as to a fire. Its vast +reaches roll and heave in the light. There is an incalculable +weight of waters withheld just beyond us, a roaming kept in +check. What an exalting thing it is to see those waters dancing +with silver castings from the moon! Even in our careless, civilized +state, drinking beer, watching driftwood burn, or absorbing the +sun and one another, in no way obligated to the kind of cold +suffering or exile which sea and seashore have meant to men +in the past, there is something in us that wants this brilliance, +this barren waste.</p> + +<p>The sheeted surfaces blown over by all winds rove on with +their freight of light during the day, constantly changing, sometimes +black, purple, and gray under pigeon-silver skies, with +hazy, soft horizons, sometimes silver scudding with gold, or blue, +green, and white in all shades; and always the tidal balance, the +surf’s fall and drag at the sand’s edge, whatever the season.</p> + +<p>During the autumn and winter months the cliffs hang their +shadows over the beach very early in the afternoon, cold darkness +moving toward an iridescent surf that reflects the last +light of the sun. The sunset shows curly salmon and fiery orange +streaks on the other side of the vast flat table that often runs with +sea ducks at this time of year; and then, singly, the stars begin +to shoot up their spears and arrows, alignments for eternal +navigation.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">A Rhythmic Shore</p> + + +<p>On the beach it might be said that there is no such +thing as decline and decay, although in a physical sense drastic +change is obvious, from year to year and even from minute to +minute. In a northern forest where the trees have been left to +grow for many years, I have sensed the presence of a great +establishment, something silent and absolutely personal, a society +of trees with its own strong relationship to the sun, to the roaring +winter winds and snows, to dry years and wet, using the earth-bound +materials of growth, decay, and old age as provisions for +indefinite residence. These tree communities culminate in “climax” +formations, dominated by particular varieties of trees such +as maple and beech, or spruce and fir, to progress no further +until some great interference, such as a lumbering operation, +or climatic change—an increase or decrease in average temperatures +over a period of years—may start a community succession +all over again.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, the beach and its cliffs that stand as +buffers against the sea never allow much in terms of residential +time, except to societies that can adapt themselves to living +between the wet sand grains, minute plants, and animals; and +beach hoppers that burrow in on the upper parts of the beach, or +other crustaceans that sink into the sand and out again as the +waves go up and back, reacting simultaneously. It is a terribly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> +exacting place to live in. Life is short. Disturbance is always to +be expected, and the more so in the course of a storm, which +may change the whole physical character of the beach itself.</p> + +<p>While I was walking on the beach I rented a small summer +cottage in the South Wellfleet area during the late autumn and +early winter months, so as to be able to spend nights as well +as days by the sea, and I paid it sporadic visits when I could. +I remember one night when the sea showed me just how candidly +elemental and violent it could be. A northeast storm had +been making up all day. Off the Provincetown area, where +the waters are protected by Peaked Hill Bar—extending from +Race Point to High Head, some thousands of feet offshore and +parallel to it—the sea though gray and choppy, was relatively +calm, while the wind blew hard. I could see several fishing +boats on the horizon. They were surrounded by clouds of gulls. +The sky was not totally overcast to begin with but full of handsome +blue-gray clouds that sailed across the air like great round +slates. Farther south the gray Atlantic foamed and rocked ahead, +and the green surf came in dashing with spume and spray, pouring +an angry froth on the shore. Finally the sky closed in +completely.</p> + +<p>By nightfall, water driven by air filled earth and sky. A little +ship’s bell on the porch outside kept tinkling, and the wind +rained blows on the house. The walls thudded as if they were +being struck by rocks. Rain pelted the windows and the cold +knifed in between the door and the sill. The sea was putting on +a profound and concentrated roar. I went out and fought the +wind as far as the top of the bank above the beach. Beyond and +below that it was almost impossible to stand. A mountainous +milky surf was seething, overturning, and piling in. Fury was +riding high. The wind belted houses, shrubs, and scanty trees. +The beach grasses were tossed, bent down, and released. Rain +slashed and whipped wildly everywhere and it seemed that all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> +the natural power and danger in the world had been let loose. +When day broke majestic breakers were booming and pounding +down the beach as the north wind drove long lines of spray +across their heads.</p> + +<p>This is the kind of storm, not infrequent between September +and May, that flings down ladders reaching to the beach, undermines +or tears away the asphalt parking lots, throws wharf +pilings and great ocean-drifting timbers around as if they were +matchsticks, and leaves them strewn on the sands. It also tears +away tremendous amounts of material from the cliffs, as well as +straightening or leveling out the contours of the beach. The +cliffs are eroded by storm action primarily, not by the tides; +but after a series of storms uncovers a part of the beach, displacing +great volumes of sand, sections of the cliff may come +down by gravity slippage, because they are not supported underneath, +and high tides may help the process.</p> + +<p>The extent of cliff erosion is very variable, and in so far as +storms are concerned, depends on their degree of intensity. Offshore +bars and shoals protect the beach from the action of the +sea to some extent. When they are breached during storms, the +result is a greatly increased cutting away of the beach sands +and erosion of the cliffs. When bars reform and build up again +the beach slowly recovers its former volume, though what the +cliffs lose, of course, they cannot regain.</p> + +<p>The estimate given for the average rate of cliff erosion along +the Outer Cape is from two to four feet a year. I have heard of +one family who have had to move their cottage back three times +during the past forty years, a period in which the cliff, so it was +estimated, may have receded nearly 200 feet in that area; and +their house lot was not extensive enough for any more moves. +Most residents or returned visitors can remember some change +in the topography of the cliffs over the years. Not long after +the end of World War II, when I came to live on Cape Cod, there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> +were still the remnants of the old twin lighthouses above Nauset +Light Beach, in the form of a curved brick base at the top of +the cliff. As time went by it was undermined, then started to +slide down, reached the base of the cliff to be completely buried +by sand, but was uncovered again some years afterward. In South +Wellfleet water pipes still project over the cliff, indicating the +presence of summer cottages some forty or fifty years ago.</p> + +<p>Changes in the beach are more immediate, and not likely to +be so irretrievable, but even there it is possible to see its fluctuations +over the years. There is a great rock off Nauset Light +Beach that used to stand high and clear at low tide some years +ago, but it has been undercut and filled around with sand and +recently only its top was showing.</p> + +<p>This is not a level, stable, protected kind of beach. It is steep, +full of long shoulders and curves, and fluctuates in outline not +only as a result of storms but with each tide and even with every +wave, making new bays, curves, shallow hills, and hollows; but +the beach is an interbalanced system. All its materials come from +offshore or the erosion of the cliffs. Wave action removes the +cliff material, and currents moving parallel to the shore take it +both north and south: there being a neutral point around +Cahoon’s Hollow, halfway between Highland Light and South +Wellfleet, although its location is dependent on the angle at +which the waves come in along the shore. Half the cliff material +moves north to build up the hood at Provincetown, and half +moves south to be deposited along the sandspits from Nauset to +Monomoy.</p> + +<p>A study made by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, +under the direction of John M. Zeigler, points out that the +north and south ends of the Cape terminate in fairly deep +water, 205 feet off Race Point and about fifty feet off Monomoy, +and that: “It seems unlikely that material is moved to the Outer +Cape from deep water, either from north and south, or by littoral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> +drifting from any other part of the New England coast. +Drifted detritus would be trapped or obstructed many times +before it could reach the beaches of the Outer Cape.”</p> + +<p>During the course of the same study beach profiles were measured +for several years and it was found that the sands were constantly +changing in elevation, all the way from several tenths +of a foot in one place during a mere ten minutes to a ten-foot +loss in another during a period of two days. The average change +per tide was about four tenths of a foot and sometimes went up +to a foot.</p> + +<p>The beach has a kind of rhythmic beat, up and down. If its +changes were translated into visual, continuous motion on a +screen you might see it dipping, rising, and undulating like the +waves at sea. Turbulence and change are not outside a frame of +order. Loss is balanced by gain, so that the sand which is taken +from one part is added to another, and though the relative +volume of the beach is greatly reduced it may be restored in a +year or so to more or less its original size.</p> + +<p>Zeigler’s report, incidentally, makes the observation that the +beaches “become very steep and full in summer and are quite +variable in winter, spring and fall,” characteristics governed by +the “sea state” during those seasons. Sea state, if I understand the +term correctly, refers to the offshore characteristics of the sea +surface, the height, length, and steepness of its waves, and their +velocity, all governed by the wind in its many different phases. +The waves that cut the beach away during fall, winter, and +early spring are characterized by their steepness. On the other +hand the summer waves that build up the beach, although they +may be the same height as cutting waves, are not steep, the long +swells that you see offshore in the warm months being typical +of this kind.</p> + +<p>From Nauset Coast Guard Beach to Highland Light the cliffs +range between 60 and 170 feet in height, and they are made of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> +the stones, boulders, sands, gravels, and clays of what geologists +up to now have called an “inter-lobate moraine,” meaning the +mixed glacial material built up as a ridge along the sides of two +moving lobes of ice—in this case two lateral moraines joined as +one.</p> + +<p>A new study by Dr. John Zeigler, which accompanied his work +on beach erosion, puts forth another theory for this area which +is that the ridge was already there before the glacier came. It +caused the glacier to split into two lobes and the material it +left behind was fluvioglacial outwash, there being no real glacial +till such as makes up a moraine before Nauset. A carbon dating +taken in this lower Cape region puts its age at 20,700 years.</p> + +<p>The Upper Cape, from Orleans to the canal, is a true terminal +moraine, having material that was pushed ahead of the glacier +and left behind when it melted north. It is characterized by +uneven hilly country full of rocks and stones merging with a +slanting sandy surface on the south which formed the outwash +plain.</p> + +<p>The cliffs may only be eroded in substantial amounts during +storms, but to a slight extent they are always eroding. In some +sections, especially during hot and dry weather, there falls a +continuous stream of pebbles and granular sand, made a rich +reddish-brown by iron compounds, looking in the strong light +like a broad rain of precious metals, treasure chests broken open. +In other places sheets of fine sand pour down in miniature +Niagaras, or flow and fly ahead along the cliffs before the wind, +having the look under slanting winter sunlight of light smoke +from many fires.</p> + +<p>Chunks and fragments of clay are loosened by the weather +from their beds in the cliffs and are often washed by heavy +rains so that a gray liquid flows and fans out for some feet across +the sands. Occasionally boulders will loosen and tumble down. +In fact small stones are constantly falling, rolling erratically part<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> +way down the beach and leaving their tracks behind them. The +cliffs are the prime source of the beach’s materials and a repository +of the ages that preceded it. They have a proud and +vulnerable role in a context where everything is subject to displacement +and removal.</p> + +<p>Taking an average of three feet a year, the Outer Beach may +have required 1760 years to erode a mile in width, even though +that is one of those general figures which may mean nothing so +far as detailed geological history is concerned. In any case, not +only cottages and lighthouses have gone their way but also such +topographical features as marshes and ponds, with all the frogs, +fish, and plants that belonged to them. On the cliff tops and very +close to the edge, there are many glacial kettle holes, now dried +up, but once full of water instead of sand, so numerous in some +areas as to make one uninterrupted dip and rise after another. +On the Nauset Coast Guard Beach, where the cliffs have ended +and are replaced by a long sandspit protecting the Nauset +marshes behind it, there is good evidence, jutting out on the +beach, of a former kettle hole, showing a fine dark sediment +composed of organic material which once lay under beds of peat.</p> + +<p>The cliffs’ glacial material, in whatever form they were left +on Cape Cod some 20,000 years ago, was part of the land’s +erosion, of geology’s rising and falling history, for countless years +before that. Since then it has been constantly exposed, loosened, +easily eroded and ready for the taking, by winds, tides, and +waves, but all of it was changing and movable in terms of the +great stretches of earth time. Many of its stones and boulders +were being wind and waterworn, cracked by frost and heat, +long before they were plucked from hills and ledges, transported +and left by the glacier to give the Cape its present form. Now +they are being broken out and rolled down to be worn again. +Like the tides, they are part of a balance, a flow, and containment, +that is prodigious in its reach.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p> + +<p>The cliffs erode; the surf churns the sand; currents carry away +the sand and other cliff debris; storms cause the sea to break +in across sandspits and bars, so that they change constantly in +shape and position. There is a magnitude of effect involved at +this meeting place of sea and land. It is a magnitude that +stretches between a sand grain which may be less than a millimeter +in diameter to storms whose force makes man-made explosions +of nuclear energy minuscule by comparison.</p> + +<p>Sand is perhaps the apex and symbol of the whole process +in which the existence of the beach is involved. It is moved and +shifted grain by grain in the displacement of its masses, lifted +by waves, carried by currents, and set down again. Sand in the +evolution of the beach is not a static material but an agent of +dynamic energy, following out the motion of water and air, +itself their product.</p> + +<p>Sand grains, which are of great age, have been worn down +from rock and the mineral grains that make it up, to particles, +largely of quartz, with some feldspar, that are sufficiently durable +not to be reduced to the consistency of mud. The wind which +moves the waves and is the ultimate cause of all beach movement, +also may have a more important effect than water in +abrasing and rounding out a sand grain. The action of grain +against grain is more abrasive in the air than in water, which +acts as a cushion. In any case a sand grain made of quartz reaches +a nearly irreducible size after a long period of time. It might +eventually be reduced to powder, but it is now protected by +the grains next to it because of its small size and the film of +water surrounding it. This water, held there by adsorption, is +what makes it possible for tiny animals like nematodes and +copepods to exist in such an environment.</p> + +<p>Pick up a handful of moist sand and it is heavy and relatively +cohesive. Through a hand lens you can see the grains fall off +in pearly clumps. On the other hand, dry sand is blown down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> +the beach in its separate grains like rice, and sorted on different +levels according to its weight and size. Each sparkling grain +is an entity unto itself. It is easily lifted and moved by the energy +of waves and currents and at the same time heavy enough in +the mass to give beaches their malleable stability.</p> + +<p>A sand grain is a product of earth, with beauty, quality, and +dynamic character, shining clear in eternal process. Sand has +the strength and resilience needed to hold up against the violent +tonnage of the waves, and at the same time to share in their +employment. It is always being remolded into new shapes by +the art of wind and sea, shifting restlessly, moving from age to +age. What we call the inanimate not only has its weights and +measures but also a wonderful proportion with relation to the +forces that send it on. It has a going out that is as rhythmic in +its way and as full of viable light as the migration of organic +lives.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">Dune Country</p> + + +<p>Sand dunes, as distinct from sandspits, or the banks at +the head of the beach, are found in a few restricted areas on +the Cape, but their two primary locations are the Provincetown +hook and at Sandy Neck in Barnstable, on the Bay side. Inland +of the beach, far enough not to be exposed to the constant wash +of the tides or to flooding seas during storms, the dunes have +forms and motions of their own. They were originally produced +by the wind, and it is the wind that reshapes them, blows over +their shoulders and down their slopes, making mounds and +ripples on their surfaces, and also undoes them and makes new +ones again.</p> + +<p>The Provincetown dunes, which I had passed by on my June +hike down the beach, represent an exposed region of several +miles in extent, uninhabited for the most part except for a few +gray beach houses perched on the dunes overlooking the sea. +They are continually being added to by sand which the dry +northwest wind picks up along the shore and blows inland. +Because of its dryness, this wind also has the greatest effect in +moving the dunes. Damper winds causing moisture on grains +of sand, make them more resistant to being moved.</p> + +<p>Much of the region is held down by low vegetation. Its sandy +reaches are patched everywhere by Hudsonia, or beach heather, +pitch pines kept down almost flat on the ground by wind and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> +salt spray, and its slopes and hummocks kept intact by beach +grass; but in other areas, and they are extensive, the dunes +have broken loose and roam like the waves of the open ocean, +with great crests and long, deep troughs. They look as if they +should have a slow, massive momentum of their own, but they +are moved by the wind, migrating in a west to east direction at +the rate of some ten to fifteen feet a year, creating a considerable +problem at the point where they skirt the highway across from +the town of Provincetown. On the far end of Pilgrim Lake +high dunes loom over the highway and are continually drifting +down on to it, hardly deterred by snow fences and the planting +of beach grass, so that the sand has to be cleared off frequently.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp45" id="i036" style="max-width: 106.8125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i036.png" alt="Sand dune with low vegetation"> +</figure> + +<p>It is a young country, even compared with the rest of the +Cape, which, in geologic terms at least, is by no means an +ancient land. It is postglacial and is made of material brought +along the shore and added to a reef of glacial debris. It begins +where the glacial material of the lower Cape ends, easily seen +where the cliff at “High Head” breaks off above Pilgrim Lake, +and then it stretches and curves out very close to sea level. +Samples of material taken in the area showed a carbon dating +of 5000 years, comparatively recent times. Also there seems to +be good reason for believing that much of the dune country was +broken free and set to wandering by the hand of man.</p> + +<p>Between the dunes and Provincetown there are a number of +ponds, marshy areas, and woodlands, including some good-sized +stands of beech and oak. These woods must have been considerably +more extensive at one time. In the dunes that now hang +over them there are remnants, tree trunks, and stubs protruding +through the sand; and there is at least one part of the dunes +that seems to show evidence of a wood fire that took up a big +area, though when it occurred is not clear to me.</p> + +<p>Thoreau wrote about the dead stubs of submerged forests +projecting above the surface of the sand in the “desert,” as he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> +called it, and of numerous little pools in the sand filled with +fresh water “... all that was left, probably of a pond or swamp.” +He may have exaggerated these pools as an indication of former +ponds or marshland. They are located a little above the water +level which extends everywhere under the dunes, and so are +likely to be found at the bottom of the dune troughs, or hollows +between the dunes. Some of these pools, or fairly long and narrow +stretches of shallow water, may stay in much the same place +over a long period of time if the levels where they are located +are at least partially held down by vegetation. They are filled +up by rain water during fall and spring and then dry out during +the summer months, but where the dunes migrate before the +wind, they also travel behind one dune and before the next; +and they are seldom deep enough to develop typical swamp +vegetation.</p> + +<p>Thoreau tramped the area in 1849, and two hundred years +earlier the dune area on the town side of the “Hook” and possibly +further must have been much more circumscribed and held +back. The early inhabitants cut down all the trees they could +find, for firewood; “try works” for melting whale blubber; boats, +houses, and salt works (in the days when salt was produced by +boiling sea water instead of the later refinement of using solar +heat to evaporate it).</p> + +<p>Blowing sand became a threat to Provincetown and its harbor +early in its history. In his <cite>Cape Cod; its people and their history</cite>, +Henry Kittredge describes the war declared by the people of +the town against almost every stick, living or dead, that surrounded +them.</p> + +<p>“When the Mayflower band arrived,” he writes, “the sand hills +to the north were for the most part held stationary by trees and +shrubs. But from the earliest times the inhabitants, following +the example of visiting fishermen, fell upon the trees until the +sand lay bare, a prey to the four winds of heaven. The captains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> +of fishing schooners were allowed to take sand ballast from these +hills, and not content with this, the citizens turned their cattle +loose to graze on what clumps of vegetation still struggled for +existence on the denuded hills, with the result that the grass +was demolished as fast as it grew. The sand was free to blow +down upon the unprotected village with every northwester, +threatening even to bury the houses.”</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>The danger attracted the attention of the Colonial Government +as early as 1714, when an act was passed to preserve +the trees. In 1727, Provincetown was incorporated, and a +dozen years later another act forbade the pasturing of cattle +on the sand hills. The Court might as well have forbidden +the winds to blow or the sun to shine. Provincetowners cared +nothing for laws, and continued to cut wood and turn cattle +loose for the next hundred years; in short, until the danger, +instead of threatening, actually arrived. The sand buried a +house or two, and was advancing toward the town, salt works, +and harbor at the rate of fifty rods a year along a four-and-a-half-mile +front. In 1825, another commission was sent to study +the situation and suggest remedies. This time they found the +citizens so frightened by the marching sand that they were +ready at last to obey the laws. They planted beach grass +on the barren dunes, kept their cattle in the pound, and +stopped cutting down young pine trees. Thus was the sand +anchored and the town saved.</p> +</div> + +<p>Pilgrim Lake is what is left of East Harbor, an extension of +the main harbor of Provincetown that ended in marshes separated +by a narrow strip of beach on the outer shore. The sea was +a constant threat to this barrier and the people of Provincetown +were afraid that it would eventually break through and start +sending tons of sand into their valuable harbor, eventually making<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> +it unusable. A dike, 1400 feet long and seventy-five feet +wide was finally completed in 1869, cutting across the mouth +of East Harbor at the entrance to Provincetown Harbor, so that +both houses and fishing industry were no longer threatened with +burial; but the dunes, though held in some control, have continued +to blow.</p> + +<p>There is a small hill called Mt. Gilboa on one side of the +highway at Provincetown, facing another Biblical peak called +Mt. Ararat on the other, and if you climb it you can overlook the +harbor and the roofs of the town, as well as the dunes and sea +in the other direction. (Provincetown, incidentally, consists of +a belt of houses narrowly strung along the inner shore with its +streets directly oriented toward the harbor, appropriate to a people +whose trade and thoughts were toward the sea. This is also true +of the houses, which were built longitudinally, parallel to the +streets.) In the fall, clam diggers bend down over dark flats +at low tide between stretching fingers of water. Dories are +stranded in the mud, or move gently on low water. Beyond them +are the curving, stockadelike enclosures of the fish weirs, and +draggers move in to the mouth of the harbor out of the bay. +The sunlight fires the sandy faces of the long, low cliffs that extend +down the inner shore of the Cape.</p> + +<p>The town, which is so thick and crowded with cars during +the summer months, a host to the cities, teeming with talk and +color, a variety of human shapes, sizes, and exclamations, so +reclaimed that you can hardly conceive of its austere past, becomes +diminished again to a mere cluster of houses, a tenuous +edge on water and sand. On the far-going Atlantic side, the +dunes billow and toss. The Ararats are everywhere, peaks, +crowns, domes held down by yellow beach grass on the mounds +and hillocks from which the slopes dive down.</p> + +<p>As the world’s dunes go, these may not be of major size and +extent. On the other hand they have been measured at heights<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> +between sixty and eighty feet, and at times dune ridges may +have reached elevations up to 100 feet. Also, their scale is such, +leading from one open face to another, that human figures climbing +a steep side across an intervening slope of no great distance +seem tiny. The walls keep looming up and the valleys dip between, +so that the whole landscape is full of a wide motion.</p> + +<p>In all this bare largesse of sand, the texture is clean and clear. +Shadows move over it like loving hands. The wind’s touch in +turn has made grooves, grains, and ribs on the surface. In some +areas the black mineral magnetite joins with garnet to make +blackish-purple ripples in the sand, or irregular masses, or +little brushstroke feathers and clouds. Everything shows clearly, +from human footprints and the long ruts made by beach buggies, +to mice or rabbit tracks. And I suppose that in the summer—if +you pounce in time—you can see insects leaving their traces, +like dune grasshoppers, colored and grained like sand, or a spider +that buries down in the sand, thus avoiding extreme temperatures; +or even a toad. I once found a Fowler’s toad quite far out +on the beach where it must have wandered away from the dunes.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp40" id="i108" style="max-width: 105.8125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i108.png" alt="Beach grass in sand"> +</figure> + +<p>A stick that drops down from one of those shrubs so besieged +by wind and sand waggles down a dune making a fine tracery, +or what looks like a stamping of birds when it is lodged in one +place and blown back and forth. An oak leaf merely blown for +a slight distance down the sand makes a track, with all its lobe +ends imprinted like a long tassel or thin strands of separate +strings. Except for the beach-buggy tracks, that follow one route +fairly consistently, and may be visible for months at a time, and +the beach grasses, continually renewing their precise circles on +the sand, most of these tracks soon disappear. There is a constant +moving of sand particles, a sweeping over by the wind. The open +dunes are trackless areas where tracks take on great significance.</p> + +<p>During winter days when the northwest wind blows with fury +along the exposed shores of the Cape, it may be too uncomfortable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> +to stay in the dunes for any length of time. You gasp in +the polar air and hide your face from the stinging sand. Each sand +grain is lifted and sent with the speed of a projectile along +the surface of the dunes. Given a little shelter from which to +watch you could see the dunes change shape in an afternoon, or +an hour. It is on days like this that they migrate like waves, with +long slopes on their upwind sides, steep ones on their lee.</p> + +<p>On their bright and stable days, the long dune shoulders at +the top of each rise tilt you up, body and vision, into the dizzy +heights of a sky graded from cobalt to indigo, the way the scale +of things in the landscape goes from sand grains to rocking seas +without distraction. The dunes almost seem to ask for a long-distance +running from both men and clouds. They are a place of +flying, falling, and tumbling, shaping the motion of what comes +to them, asking for an approach that soars.</p> + +<p>Also, they have their secrets, their ground-level associations. +In October the beach-grass heads are loaded with yellow seeds. +Where the plants are clumped together, providing protection +from the wind, nests of seed gather on the leeward side, visited +by birds that leave many little tracks and sometimes a feather +or two. Mice also leave their dimpled trails, circling around the +beach grass, traveling across bare sand for short distances before +they disappear. There is a special delicacy in the visits of birds +and mice. I had the fancy, following these small trails, of watching +mice under the moon, with all their scuttling, nibbling, and +investigating, so that some of their excitement, their fidgety life +dance might be translated for me. I even thought it might help +bring me down from a world too heavy with size to a neater +reality.</p> + +<p>Startled by a little crash of twigs and leaves, I saw a rabbit +darting up a dune slope. It bobbed to the top and stayed motionless +for a few seconds in a bayberry thicket until I followed it +to find what might be the meeting place of a whole tribe of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> +rabbits, if I could judge by the amount of tracks and pellets +of dung there were, all on the rim of a small bowl held together +by the bayberries with a small scrub oak coming up from its +base. These semiprotected hollows are quite typical of the dunes. +There are also small woods of pitch pines, thickly carpeted +with needles, where the tree roots can get some moisture at +the bottom of a valley between the dunes. Scrub-sized oak, pine, +sometimes bayberry, beach plum, or wild cherry, hold down +many hollows, with the help of beach grass on the shoulders +around them.</p> + +<p>The beach grass has had much deserved honor heaped upon +it, in the proportion that it is able to live with the tons of sand +that are also heaped upon it. It is perfectly adapted to being +covered over by sand since it sends up stems which in turn root +themselves, and then grows on, letting the old roots die. As a +sand hill builds up, the beach grass is able to maintain itself in +this fashion without being buried and to hold down the sand with +a network of roots and stalks. It stabilizes such hills until the +point where the wind may sweep so constantly around them as +to expose them and cut away the sand, leaving the grass in +splendid isolation with its outer roots hanging in mid-air. So +beach grass and sand have a special collaboration which man +does his best to encourage, especially after he has made rescue +work necessary.</p> + +<p>The sand masses have great weight and volume and are stable +in themselves but it is their surfaces that flow and shift with +the wind, so that the whole region is remolded over periods of +time. It is fascinating to sit in a valley between the dunes and +reconstruct their curves, seeing how the sand has been swept +down one side and blown up another, sent over a hill to make +a new one on the other side, held for a long time and then +broken loose to change its residence, motion, and stability joining +to make those noble forms.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> + +<p>The dunes may threaten man’s house, or road, or wood lot +in immediate terms, but in themselves they are like distant +monuments dedicated to natural force, perfect, calm, threatening +or joining all that which lies ahead of them with equanimity. +Time and its lapses seem immaterial, more so than the wind +that shifts them. Now, or in years to come, a migrating dune +will kill off a tree or a shrub and what does it matter? Can I +care about what happens to one of a thousand scrub pines? I +think not; but perhaps I can care about the event in the whole +sequence of growth, change, and reshaping. Slow and statuesque, +the dunes under the great air are another balance in process, +like the beach beyond them.</p> + +<p>I think of some of the trees in the dunes and their struggle +with the winds and the encroaching sands, and I am unable to +shed tears over something that is unable to cry, but sometimes +the word desperation comes to me, when I see evidence of their +long efforts to hold on. You will see a dying cherry tree that +has sent shoot after shoot, trunk after trunk, all over the side of +a dune or sand hill that is being worn away, and they are full +of the contortions of struggle—arrested, like the statue of Laocoön +and his sons wrestling with the snakes, but real enough. Or +another hummock or small dune, where a beach plum or bayberry +may not have enough purchase left, has a mass of twisted +branches and twigs strewn down its sides, the wreckage of a +genuine defeat.</p> + +<p>On the north edge of Provincetown the migrant dunes skirt +the woods and thickets on their borders like icebergs, clean-rounded, +immense shoulders of satiny sand slipping by trees: +shad, bayberry, beach plum, red maple, oak, or pine. Because +of the stable nature of sand, except when it is blown, they stay +where they are, great suspended masses, their progress only +measured at intervals, leaving evidence of trees that are buried, +or about to be buried, behind them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<p>I am indebted to Dr. Loren C. Petry for pointing out to me +that some trees are able to grow in the same way as beach grass, +while they are being covered with sand. Pines will die when +they are only partially buried, but this is not true, for example, +of cottonwoods whose branches send down roots soon after they +are buried, and so maintain their water and mineral supply. +He has seen fifty-foot specimens of this tree—along the southeast +side of Lake Michigan—of which some forty feet were buried, +with the remaining ten feet growing vigorously.</p> + +<p>The trees in the wooded areas bordering the dunes, particularly +the pines, look as if they were covered with a soft whitish +powder. It is caused by the very fine sand grains dusted over +their leaves and needles by the wind, and during the winter +this can be seen for miles down the Cape, well south of High +Head.</p> + +<p>Almost all the trees here have a temporary existence, holding +on as well as they can, fighting for light, food, and moisture. +Even if there used to be more woodland than there is now—and +the evidence is good—there is nothing about this narrow +area, stretching into the sea, made by the sea in collaboration +with the wind, that looks settled. The word stabilized can be +applied to a dune and in a sense to anything that remains rooted, +anchored, or in place for a certain length of time, but in this +case the word balance might be better. Motion, either latent or +in view, is in equilibrium throughout this rare place, half desert, +occasionally wooded, full of gardenlike patches of low growth +standing out in their variety of color and shade, seeming to +move like the clouds. There are shadows everywhere, made by +low twigs, needles, or grasses, the slightest thing lying across +the sand, in sketchy rhythmic patterns tossed by the wind, while +the greater shadows made by the high dune outlines are shifting +steadily with the time of day.</p> + +<p>Aside from mice, rabbits, skunks, toads, insects, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> +indigenous plants, this seems a place for nomads, and the birds +that are free to forage, like a dark pigeon hawk that swoops +across on its hunt for prey, or an occasional marsh hawk, breast +feathers gleaming in the sunlight, its shadow passing across a +dune wall. Little flocks of birds burst here and there through +the thickets, like chickadees, myrtle warblers, or juncos that +move around on the ground pecking for seed. In their fall migration +many of the juncos, or “snowbirds,” reach Cape Cod by a +long, over-the-water route, and flocks that arrive on the Outer +Beach begin to move up into the dunes in a search for fresh +water, perennial pilgrims.</p> + +<p>I sat on the top of a high dune one afternoon and watched +a beach buggy swaying and swinging up in my direction along +a track that led from the shore. It droned up and careened by +me, plowing and slipping through the sands, and away down +a long slope it went on the dunes’ free forms, cutting across +the shadows that were spearheading toward the sea. Then I +heard children’s voices in the distance coming over quite clear +and shrill, falling off at intervals before the wind. The slopes +and valleys stretched with pure travel in between. It was the +kind of place where all views and associations keep on, across +a shifting range. It lacked fixed ways, decided roads. Only packed +in by the open ocean and the long reaches of time, the roving +dunes made a continually majestic statement which no amount +of cans, broken glass, or human footprints could erase.</p> + +<p>Off on the end, the edge, past the cities and the suburbs, the +fixed house lots, the fields, and plains that make a patchwork of +an entire nation, here is a country let go, barren, down to an +essential minimum, but tossing and flowing with its own momentum +in an envious proximity to the sea. It is the first and +last land in America.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">A Change in History</p> + + +<p>The history of Cape Cod is fairly well known. I say +fairly well because I do not see how it is possible to recapture +the deep complexities of what was present and now is past, +although there is enough past left in us to provide great confusion +about the times we have to face. Many tourists run after +“charm” or what is “quaint,” terms which are slight enough to +admit that they have very little to do with the dark realities of +three centuries. Now we come and go in great bounds, from +great distances. Motion and change make our constancies. We +are in no need of staying put. We are attracted by the starlight +in the heavens we have created for ourselves. We look on the +earth’s great flowing beauties with an inclined eye. For all its +“conquest of nature,” perhaps because of it, our civilization has +a tenuous hold on the waters and lands it occupies. We are in +danger of being overlords, not obligated to what we rule.</p> + +<p>We do not “visit” in the old sense of the word, stopping in +for fish chowder, or rum or a cup of tea, nor are we customarily +invited in because we are tired and out of our way. There is +no time for that, and besides there are too many of us.</p> + +<p>The new human plantings do not fit the old outlines. Cape +Cod is now subject to a population spreading out as a result +of the tremendous growth of cities and towns. It is predicted +that the number of winter residents will increase by forty or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> +fifty thousand in the next twenty years, and the summer visitors +to the Great Beach may pass all bounds eventually. As the +speed of transition has been increased between one era and +another so has our individual speed, in arriving and departing. +When you buy a piece of land on the Cape you do it as an +investment, as a kind of fluid security, not for its own sake or +something too priceless to let go. There are always other places +to move to. Each man used to be his own nomad, now nomadism +is supplied to all of us by the mechanics and riches of society. +During the tourist season the average length of visit per person +has been estimated at three days, enough time to sense the +breadth of things if not the circumstances.</p> + +<p>If we are all to be itinerants, wasting and leaving, or suburbanites, +Cape Cod will have a hard time keeping what open +beauties it still displays, even with the National Park, which +has saved a great deal of it from the seemingly unalterable army +of bulldozers in the nick of time.</p> + +<p>The record, written all over the Cape in the form of cut-over +woodland and wasted topsoil, does not say much for human +foresight at any time, with or without the bulldozers. In that +respect we have not changed, though we are not as dependent on +the locality we live in as we used to be. Food and resources come +from afar. Still, all places, regardless of the human adventure, +have their underlying tides, their own measured and perhaps +measureless pace, and they shade their inhabitants in subtle ways. +We continue to be affected by what we can neither transform nor +avoid. No amount of dry ice stops the hurricane. We have no +barriers to keep off the arctic air. So those of us who live here +still complain helplessly about each other or the weather, while +ghosts of penury and puritanism still haunt the local houses.</p> + +<p>The area in which I stayed for that brief nomadic period +of my own, was filled with cottages, on slopes ending on the +cliff above the beach, a majority unoccupied but with a house<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> +here and there showing a little more substance to it, the evidence +of a year-round resident. With some exceptions, they were bare +in appearance and devoid of individuality. No uncommon effort +had been made to give them much distinction. In the winter +and fall they lost whatever color by human association they +might have had during the summer. Some of them were flat-roofed, +pastel-painted little boxes without even the virtue of +exposed wood, and since they were not in Florida they could +not borrow any youth from the sunshine. Their spirit was old +before they were built, and in that respect indigenous to the +seashore. The bare coast and the gray waters seemed to hold +them in contempt, or at least indifference, and they became +as gray themselves. They are due credit for their lack of pretension, +whether planned or not. They did not take up the landscape +with improvements and cultivation. They sat on their +own little plots of sandy ground, with a few pitch pines, Hudsonia +and scrub oak, joining the general economy of the landscape, +no blowing leaves and limbs above them, no spreading +lawns around. Whoever might live in them after the mild, +money-making season could be gripped by the real weather without +interference.</p> + +<p>Our age may give the lie to all those who are interested in +antiques, even if there are any old ones left. Perhaps there is +no alternative if we have to get to the moon or bust. Will there +ever be such a thing as an antique rocket? But there is still a +flow of age, a distant sense of things that it is possible to find, +hanging like mist over an inlet, booming like the sea over the +far side of a hill.</p> + +<p>You can still walk the Old King’s Highway in some areas, +a single-track road where it is easy to imagine a horse and wagon +or a stage, during the years when it took two days to get to +Boston and the sea route was the preferred one. Even with +the jet planes droning overhead and the cars grinding gears in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> +distance and the about-to-break sound of the future in the sky +somewhere ahead, it is as ancient and distinct as the outline +of an oak tree. Just its narrowness is enough. I spent half one +afternoon trying to find it in one part of its extent, and at last +there it was, quite clearly, just the right size for the eighteenth +century, with narrow ruts in sandy ground, lowered, indented, +washed out in some places, grown over in others, but a ghost +with definition.</p> + +<p>In the Wellfleet and Truro areas you can still see how the +houses were located here and there along the old highway, or +dotted around in sheltered hollows back of the beach. In the +wintertime you are very likely to meet no one, since there are +comparatively few year-round residents. Once the place was full +of local need, local talk, or tragedy. What wrecks now occur +along the treacherous offshore bars can usually be taken care of +by men of the Coast Guard who can get to the area quickly in a +jeep and sound the alarm by phone. When there was no radar +for ships, hardly any means for wide and quick communication +with authorities on land, localities were responsible for the +wrecks that might occur off their own shore. There were volunteer +lifeboat crews composed of men from neighboring houses, +with a boat kept ready in a hollow above the beach, ready to +be launched out to the rescue, in terrible seas that were a common +part of existence.</p> + +<p>In the early part of the nineteenth century Cape Cod towns +had between three and four hundred sailing ships between +them and a majority of their men went out to sea. In a great +storm occurring in October of 1841 the town of Truro lost +fifty-seven men, being already burdened with a large population +of widows, and on the day after the storm nearly a hundred +bodies were recovered along the Cape Cod shores. Most of them +were caught while they were fishing on George’s Banks or were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> +making a desperate trial of returning home, with a northeast +gale screaming and the sea sweeping their decks.</p> + +<p>The bars off the Outer Beach from Peaked Hill to Monomoy +have been responsible for an incredible number of shipwrecks +in the past, and taking the measure of the storms that strike the +coast, it is hard to see how there could have been as many survivors +as there were, even with the gallantry and local experience +of the amateur lifesavers. Many ships ran aground too far offshore +to be reached, and were pounded to pieces. The death-dealing +power of the offshore sea in these storms seems unparalleled. +The surf has the turmoil and roar of an avalanche. It chews +and churns at the cliffs taking great volumes of material away +so that it seethes with foam and sand, the masses of teeming +waters plunging in, heaving and conflicting, an amalgam of +unapproachable violence.</p> + +<p>Many of the lights that welcomed sailors, or warned them off, +are now gone from the headlands and from houses along the +shore that no longer have to worry about their men any more +than they have to worry about themselves. The mackerel fleets +are no longer thick on the horizon. The wharves are gone that +used to take in the mackerel at Wellfleet on the Bay side. No one +eats salt mackerel any more that I know of. I have a friend who +spent his boyhood in New York State who was given salt mackerel +to eat on Sunday mornings. It had been soaked in milk overnight, +having been taken out of a “kentle,” which was a small +wooden keg, the top wider than the base, about a quarter of a +barrel in size. His observation was that it was much too salty a +dish for his taste.</p> + +<p>The talkers at the livery stable, the central store, or the barbershop +are also gone, as well as the sea captains who retired at +the age of forty-five or fifty to become big men in their communities. +The horses, truck gardens, fish heads, rum and rum runners +are gone too, and what old men still whittle boats for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> +tourists on the beach? The ancient marvels who used to gather +Cape Cod moss on their backs, telling hilarious stories about +chicken stealing, cow “dressing” (manure), boundary disputes, +occasional romantic murders, and hard days at sea no longer seem +to be available for reference. What a lot of solid objects seem to +have gone from the world!</p> + +<p>Perhaps I have left history behind too soon, saying, in effect: +“Choose what age you like. You may find yourself in another.” +Perhaps it is no fault of mine.</p> + +<p>During my autumn and winter walks I did find a lasting +pleasure in recognizing old things, reconstructing neighborliness, +even from a distance, learning to see the silence—the +growth and shape of things, the riches of “slow time.” The ponds +especially, in the Wellfleet and South Truro regions, protected +by the woods around them and the land leading up to the cliffs +above the beach, were clear and deep and seemed to reflect +quiet habitation over a long time. The water lapped on sandy +shores in the sweet, airy winter stillness, broken by the loud, +bright braying of blue jays. Coon tracks were sharply etched +on the shallow margins where they had gone fishing for fresh-water +mussels that left meandering traces on the pond bottom. +On the far ends in the shadows there were occasional ducks, +like blue-winged teal, mallards, or scaups.</p> + +<p>At Gull Pond in Wellfleet one January day there were scarfs +of ice along the shore, and out in the center herring gulls flew +up and settled down on open water where a light cold wind +broke across the surface. Wavelets were continually pushing and +jostling broken ice so that it made a high singing, almost bell-like +sound.</p> + +<p>Around these ponds were crows, evidence of owls, wintergreen +leaves to taste, and wind whisking through the pines, or +oaks still carrying dead leaves. I heard the odd little hornlike +note of a nuthatch as it was rounding the scaly plated trunk<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> +of a pitch pine. Pale light moved through the woods and across +the hollows. Silvery trees bordered gentle mossy roads, their +tracks loaded with fallen leaves. It was all in a special Cape +proportion, colored silver and gray, like the Atlantic, or the +herring gulls, the clouds and the sky, or an old house that suddenly +showed up in true style and balance, not to be imitated +by any century but its own.</p> + +<p>Then I walked out to see the great green breakers roaming +in, and to hear their thunderous bone and gut fall across the +length of the beach. The sound held and it took away, a monumental +assurance of power past all the roughness and directness +of the old life, its quiet suspension in the present, and the +wrenching of the not-yet born.</p> + +<p>What you have to face after all, in this low wooded land, +in the continual dip and rise of its contours, is consummate +change, the way the beach itself, or the dunes are changing, +keeping a general state for a minute, or even a lifetime, but +quite beyond catching. Its history is water.</p> + +<p>Water created it in the first place. When the last enormous +glacier melted back leaving its indiscriminate load of rubble +out in the sea, it had also created a profusion of holes, basins, +gullies, the “kettles” which are now dry or semidry hollows, bogs, +or still holding water as ponds and lakes, and valleys, broad +and narrow runs with outlets to the sea. At one time Cape +Cod must have been streaming with water like a whale’s back +when it rises to the surface. Now many of the original streams, +rivers, and ponds are wholly or in part dried out, but without +too much imagination you can fill the landscape with water all +over again. Scientific exactitude, geologic reconstruction, make +it possible to confirm your sense of the place as full of remnant +and abiding fluidity. There is hardly a piece of land on the entire +peninsula that does not suggest this.</p> + +<p>It is water thousands of years behind, water inseparable from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> +the motions of the future, a power roaring in and destroying, +pushing, grinding, ebbing back. It is water in the rain; water +in the deep, still ponds; water in the underground darkness; +in the gentle seaward running streams; in the tidal estuaries +and marshes lowering or flooding over; as sleet; or snow; in icy +gales full of the howling emptiness of the winter sea, when +the cold metal of the wind pounds on your back and cuts at +your face, as it sweeps down the semifrozen sands of the beach +where the green and white surf fumes in, rolling and churning +with impersonal passion.</p> + +<p>Even now the history of Cape Cod is a history of enduring +weather, of the same exposures. Only our terms are not the +same. Some years ago I stood on the high hills of North Truro +late one afternoon, watching the suns red path shining and +moving across the wide waters of the bay, thinking of sea surfaces +moving over the round earth to its poles, and the poverty +of the winter world around me, stripped to ultimates, everywhere +exposed, and exposed to everything. The round hills were +so bare that the little separate houses in the distance, down in +hollows or perched on the long slopes, seemed to shiver. They +glittered like so many frost flakes in the air. I had just come +from Provincetown and seen a dragger unloading its fish, and +the fishermen cutting them up with red, raw-meat hands. The +wind was shipping up the water. The gulls were crying over the +racing, lathered shore.</p> + +<p>It came to me that what had brought me here had not so +much to do with a feeling for the old Cape, with its churches +in their simple New England grace, or clam-digging, beach-combing, +old wrecks, driftwood, or fish weirs, real as it was in +me, but a great new outwardness, a universal human event. +Each man undergoes a series of changes during his lifetime in +a sequence of experience that corresponds to that of the world. +He has in him the revolutions, the escapes from holocaust,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> +the interspaces of peace, the fact of war, the anxieties, the cry +that his being be fulfilled, the never-ending human examination +and measuring of things. So I found myself to be “way out,” a +Cape Cod term anteceding the Beat Generation, and meaning +far from your home base, with very few old promises behind to +sustain me. I had to come to terms with an age without age, a +locality without location, perhaps a divinity in fires of no precedent +or name. Above all I was required to change, to face in +new directions.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The gulls floated in the cold air with customary ease. On +my way home I saw a great blue heron flying over a marsh and +inlet, its broad wings spread out like a cloak, long legs stretched +straight behind it, with feet curled up stiffly, head and neck +crooked back. Then it landed in shallow water. Its wings folded +and it stood straight up, with a surprising, statuesque height +and gaze, the long neck and head above a flock of ducks that +were swimming and feeding near by, assuming the kind of +composure special to a race of herons that would serve indefinitely. +The wind ruffled the water, swept over reeds and curving +grasses, sending the last light of day roving in splendid colors +over the entire marsh.</p> + +<p>All the measured lights and shadows of day and night, the +tides of the sea and the tides of the season, the response and joint +association of all life’s components in that place stayed much +the same as they had ever been, in spite of the way we hurled +in our roads and relocated ourselves without rest. Its natural +order was still there for old expectation to seize upon; though +in terms of accumulated knowledge and wants it was more complex +than it had ever been, and would have to endure a human +association that was itself on the waters of change, holding +hard to the mechanics of its coming. Cape Cod had suddenly lost +a slow, accumulative history, perhaps in a matter of twenty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> +years, and would be treated like the rest of the world—as it +happened, as it would come about under human auspices. Our +problem, one of many, might be this: how could we reconcile +universal commitment with the inviolable nature of a single +place?</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">Barren Grounds</p> + + +<p>The oceanic landscape reaches across the round earth, +over a curved horizon, and that may be one reason why men +keep returning to it. The sea attracts the experience of distance. +There is still some vicarious adventure to standing on a cliff, +breathing the far-ranging air and imagining ships hidden by +mists on the horizon, or unknown lands beyond that, or even +remembering lands once visited. Over there is where the great +passages of history have gone by.</p> + +<p>As recently as fifty or sixty years ago, man and sea were +involved in a more personal alliance on Cape Cod, and its +seamen once voyaged around the world. At the same time there +were some local inhabitants who considered it a major expedition +to go from one side of the Cape to the other. The fishing, +shipbuilding, and voyages to foreign lands that was more characteristic +of the Cape before the Civil War than after it gave +what might have been a too narrow community, concentrated +only on its own affairs, a healthy connection with the rest of +the world.</p> + +<p>Since the Second World War Cape Cod has been filled with +relative outsiders, many of whom have been transported, not +necessarily through any fault or wish of their own, to stations +around the globe. A place that once went out for its sustenance +now waits for the world to come to it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>One of the few people I met during my off-season walks on +the beach turned out to be a man who had retired from the city. +The open air may have been conducive to revelation, because he +told me a great deal about his life during the ten or fifteen minutes +I talked to him. It turned out that the place where we stood +had some significance in his own history. He looked out to sea +from the edge of the cliff and pointed out over the water to show +me the general region where transports used to gather during the +First World War on their way overseas. He had been on a Navy +escort vessel.</p> + +<p>“This country,” said he, “is waste,” as he talked about war, +small business, rough competition, lumbering, and all the size +and circumstances of the men and societies he had met and +fought and endured. Through a life-long experience of waste—or +waste space—and all his tired compliance with authority +and anger against it, he had saved room in him for voyages. He +told me that he had come to live near the sea so that he could walk +along the cliffs and the beach whenever he wanted to, and to +look out, I guess, when he wanted to with a relatively free command +view of destiny.</p> + +<p>After I left him I met another reminder of war, spread out +for several miles along the tops of the cliffs. It is now within +the boundaries of the National Seashore Park, and one day, +when the beach grass takes hold of its denuded areas, it will +no longer be recognizable as a military reservation, but when +I first walked through it Camp Wellfleet had just been formally +disbanded. Although it was completely deserted, its buildings +and some of its installations were still intact. It had been an +antiaircraft post, and not of primary importance to a coast which +was not likely to be attacked, but I have heard local residents +speak of the constant, annoying sound of practice firing, which +made the walls tremble and the dishes fall off the shelves, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> +for several years after the war ended fishermen used to protest +that their boats were in the line of fire.</p> + +<p>The camp was in what geologists call the Wellfleet Plain. +It was on these bare levels above the beach that Guglielmo +Marconi built his wireless station and sent out the first transatlantic +message in January of 1903. The year before, he had +built an elaborate structure with twenty masts, and this had +blown down in a heavy onshore wind. The successful message, +which took the form of an exchange between Theodore Roosevelt +and King Edward VII of Great Britain, was sent from only four +masts, which had more stability in Cape Cod weather. It is +typical of the Outer Beach that although Marconi transmitted +waves that crossed the world, the sea has had the last word. On +the day I walked through nearly sixty years later there was nothing +left of what he had constructed but a few fallen bricks on +the face of the cliff.</p> + +<p>Marconi’s towers were long gone, but the Camp Wellfleet +lookout towers and firing range were still more or less intact, +and the place only lacked occupation to make it come alive +again. The public had been kept out of the area for many years, +but now I could walk in on a winter’s afternoon and not meet +a soul. I passed a sign saying: <span class="allsmcap">MILITARY RESERVATION NO +TRESPASSING</span>, not without vague qualms, and memories of my +own months in an Army camp, half-expecting the sound of +“Halt!” to ring out.</p> + +<p>“Yessir. Yessir.” I said to myself, starting to prepare my excuses +to some ghost of past authority.</p> + +<p>There was no sound but the surf and a pelting rain, that +fell on bare gravelly ground seared everywhere with tire tracks. +Bareness was something the Army brought to all its posts, so +that a bunch of grass was considered unnecessary, or tended +for dear life. The Army city, once a humming, purposeful anonymity, +was now completely silent and alone, but for me it still<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> +kept some of the power of its restrictions, arousing old apprehensions—that +tightening of the stomach at facing some new unknown. +The bare white barracks were still intact, and the power +lines. There were signs indicating underground cables, or latrines. +There were off-limits signs on empty streets.</p> + +<p>I stood in the rain and remembered that essential order, +with its own enormous kind of waste and consumption, and the +feelings of frustration and boredom it produced in me. I remembered +the routine, the rote-mindedness which often passed +for efficiency, the utter helplessness that many soldiers felt during +wartime, and were obliged to accept, about being part of +something huge, anonymous, even reckless and uncalculated, +an ignorance of which they themselves were ignorant and to +which they had not been invited. I also remembered the unassuming +friendships you could make in the Army, the directness +with which men accepted each other.</p> + +<p>A sparrow hawk flew over. I noticed deer tracks on the +ground. They were interruptions of a nature that did not concern +me very much as a draftee in an Army camp, although—more +than most—we were exposed to the wide nights and their +stars, the wonderful freshness of dawn, and the extremes of +heat and cold. There is a naked timelessness to Army life that +allies it to a sea. A soldier’s life was restricted and oversimplified—he +was not his own agent—and at the same time he acted for +the world, cast out on an open plain. A great waste took him, +equal in its surface or its depths, in being out of his hands. +When he protested, he was protesting against the passage of +all the nights on all the waters.</p> + +<p>I can remember a fellow barracksmate one evening after +dark saying he had something of great importance he had to +speak to me about. We went out and talked in the company +street, standing on the sandy grounds between the buildings, +conscious of a towering night with flashing stars. He talked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> +desperately, on and on, about the life he had been planning +before the Army took him away; he complained that he and the +girl he was to marry had been put off; he talked bitterly about +the job which had now been denied him, the business he was +going to establish, and: “Why? Why? Why?” What business +was it of the President of the United States to start a war and +send him into it?</p> + +<p>It is murderous not to be able to fight back. It is also appropriate +for the Army to denude the ground of its grass, the beach +grass that holds it down above the cliffs. It is appropriate for +the sea to roam on with a blind eye, and for the cliffs to fall +and the sands to shift and blow. It is inevitable, at one time +or another, that each of us should stand on these barren grounds. +The gloom of the sea puts all other darkness and gloom in +jeopardy. Its brilliance is impenetrable. It carries light over the +earth’s surface like a turning crystal. It is overbearing and restless +and at the same time as strict and balanced as its tides. +Perhaps it is best approached in misery of soul, because then it +stands out in all its cryptic mastery as the raw room that owns +us, the desert without illusion.</p> + +<p>Camp Wellfleet had eight towers, spaced along the top of +the cliff for several miles. Watchers could look out from their +transversing positions over the coastline and the sea and signal +the accuracy of the antiaircraft gunners who fired at mobile +targets over the water. I climbed two of the towers that still +had ladders. They were in fair condition, but clearly not too +long for this world of wind and spray, of ice, rain, and snow, +and the fierce summer sun. Most of the windows were broken, +the wires ripped off the control boards, and the floors, with +boards splintered or gone entirely, were littered with wire and +broken glass. A cold wet wind whined through. I wondered +how many young men had felt cast off, lonely, and bored on this +lookout over the dark sea. Some of those on duty had left their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> +names behind, probably after the war was over, judging by +the dates: Sweeny, Morton, Yarborough, and they also left the +names, portraits, or disfigurements of their girls, or would-be +girls, the signs of need in wastes of order.</p> + +<p>Concrete gun emplacements and bunkers were still intact, +with empty cartridges and ammunition boxes on the ground +outside. A strand of barbed wire made a little clanging sound +of unused warning as I brushed by it. Toward the far end of +the reservation, on the Eastham side, I passed another off-limits +sign and sat down on a ring of sandbags located in a little hollow +on the very edge of the cliff; they were beginning to slide down +the face of it like Marconi’s bricks. Looking down on the beach +where blackbacks and herring gulls were the only sentinels, +facing in to the wind, I thought of how many worlds, how +many inventions, how much devising we had run through, at +a faster rate even than the sea cut down the cliffs. The maniacal +weight of one war had gone, but the knowledge and power it +let loose had sent us on, committing us to our human ends in +the most inclusive and at the same time isolated sense, universally +vulnerable.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp40" id="i012" style="max-width: 102.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i012.png" alt="Blackback gull on the wing"> +</figure> + +<p>The wind sent dark clouds of ruffled waters along the sea surfaces, +surfaces that tilted and flew, stretching away and disappearing, +and the sky light, feather gray in the rain, reflected +everywhere. The long surf line sounded with the crash and rattle +of stones. The vast flow went on unhindered, restless and controlled, +delivering and holding back, a nay and yea sayer at the +same time, passing all experiments, accepting all possibility without +a care. How could the sea do anything about reassuring mankind +as to whether or not we would survive our own acts and +commitments? Did man make war, or did war make him? Perhaps +we love the sea for its denial of us.</p> + +<p>Sitting on the sandbag, I thought of the GI who had last been +there, manning a gun now replaced by missiles and rockets—bothered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> +perhaps by the cold, penetrating wind, feeling useless, +waiting for his discharge from the Army, wishing he were somewhere +else, not knowing beach grass from seaside goldenrod, or +one gull from another, but knowing the sea, with its one sound.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">A Landscape in Motion</p> + + +<p>There are a number of elevations on the Cape from which +it is possible to see both sides, getting above intervening houses, +trees, or hills. On the same Wellfleet Plain where Camp Wellfleet +was located the moraine tilts all the way down from the +cliff above the Outer Beach to the shores of the bay, and reaches +of land and water come into view from all directions. One plane +leads to another by easy transitions. The cliff tops shine in the +wind above the steady pouring sound of the waves and the dancing +of molten gold and silver on the sea. Beach grasses glitter. The +land ahead is full of coarse scrub oak and green patches of bayberry +moving toward dark green woods of pitch pine and clusters +of houses, reaching the sheltered shores of the bay beyond +them, with salt marshes, gold and red; water-shining, brown +tidal flats, and a rim of blue water on the distant horizon.</p> + +<p>It is a stunted land, not overhospitable to life by the looks of +it, although flocks of chickadees bounce gaily through the scrub +as if giving it their free acknowledgment. As the autumn progresses +the reds change to brown, plants darken or die down, +shrubs lose their leaves, and the grasses bleach. In all seasons it +is a place of low growth, ready in its hardy way to receive what +the wind and sun can send it. The sky is very wide overhead. +You can see from one tidal area to another—almost from one +climate to another—standing on the bare ground. In scale the +view approximates what you can see from high in the air.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> + +<p>A plane shows you a much wider panorama, while diminishing +the land, eliminating the size of locality and local things. It +takes you high enough to see the curve of the earth, the concrete +highways like ribbons across the country, the thin lines of roads +and streets, the checkered fields, patches of lakes, and sprawling +cities. A jet plane cuts across time. You can run after the sun +as it falls on the other side of the world and almost catch it, +following the mountain shadows over America, and since you +pass time in that sense, not able to go faster than the speed of +light, but crossing the rhythmic stations of earth and sun, I have +felt it as a longer journey than that involved in a car or train. +What might ordinarily take days is reduced to hours, but when +we landed I have felt the days in me as much as the hours. We +bypass the clock. We go from low to high, bridging a gap between +the individual and the universe, leaving earth’s confinements +for indefinite space, but local time is still inside us.</p> + +<p>On the ground, obviously enough, you limit the horizon by the +extent of your vision, and the horizon in turn limits you, but +land and water are held by their relationships to space and to +each other. Apparently all climatic cycles are world-wide; and +the immediate, local weather is in part dependent on the weather +behind and ahead of it. In the same way the only limit to the +landscape is the globe itself. Its reaches go out of sight, if not of +universal measure.</p> + +<p>This seaside country often gives you the feeling that the sky +is the limit. One opening beyond the trees, another mile revealed, +and the earth and sea from the top of a dune, the world +you stand on, may become exalted in its scope. Perhaps people +climb hills and mountains not only to get to the top, or as an +activity in its own right—reasons often given in answer to questions +that may be of no great value—but to join the range of the +world, to be up and outward bound, and above all to have a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> +sense of the unities in and beyond them. A greater landscape +means a new communion.</p> + +<p>I once climbed a small mountain in Maine with a group of +Sea Scouts. We stopped just below its summit, where there was a +bowl surrounded by rocky heights and slopes and holding clear, +cold water, the size of a small pond. The boys stripped and went +in swimming, and all their excited yelling as they jumped in and +out of the water resolved along the rock faces and deep crevices +into echoes that rang and choired—heard from above—like <i>Te +Deums</i> in a cathedral. And far down and around for hundreds +of miles were the houseless mountains flaming with color.</p> + +<p>One of the boys asked: “How many acres do you think there +are?”</p> + +<p>For all its matter-of-factness, his question brought us in touch +with massive distance, an over-all light and wind above the great +carpets of color, a landscape running with power, having a latent +silence, a prodigious weight and matter.</p> + +<p>Mountains or seashore make for revelation. So on this sandy, +tilting peninsula sight can keep on going. On one side the +head-on majesty of cliffs, beach, and open sea, and on the other, +calm low headlands facing sheltered waters, two different environments, +with the west wind blowing over and the clouds +flaring and shifting in the sky. You are in the lap of the waters, +the balance of the tides, and in the arms of the weather.</p> + +<p>Each patch of ground, varying in the degree to which it is +receptive to organic life, is a complexity of substance and influence. +The weather that circulates over it, and in terms of +light, relative moisture, and varying temperatures invests it too, +has its seasonal constancies but it is always in a state of change. +Cape Cod feels much of the time as if it were two-thirds wind, +and people with touchy nerves might well think they were being +pushed by it in directions they were unable to go.</p> + +<p>The Cape has a maritime climate, somewhat milder than the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> +mainland. There is no use exaggerating its mildness since it can +feel as cold or colder than the rest of New England when the +northwest wind takes its uninterrupted course through the ribs of +the land and sears its way along the shore, but, in general, annual +temperatures are slightly higher. In central and western +Massachusetts, in New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York +State, the average number of days between the first severe, killing +frost in the autumn and the last one in the spring has been +estimated at 180-210. For Cape Cod, on the other hand, this is +120-150, the same that prevails in a thin coastal belt south of the +Cape to Virginia and North Carolina where it widens and +starts west across Tennessee.</p> + +<p>The waters to the south, in Buzzards Bay and Nantucket +Sound, have a higher annual temperature than the waters of the +open Atlantic along the Outer Beach and in Cape Cod Bay, a +southern extension of the Gulf of Maine. On the other hand the +waters north of Cape Cod, though cooler during the summer, +tend to be warmer during the winter, because of the depths of +the Gulf of Maine and their heat-carrying capacity. Cape Cod +Bay, and Buzzards Bay have more sea ice than any equal area on +the coast of the United States with the exception of Alaska. Sustained +cold during January and February often results in weeks +of pack ice stretching off into the Bay as far as the eye can see, +at least from the level of the shore. This extra touch of the +Arctic off the Cape is due mainly to a combination of cold +winter winds from the continent and shallow water.</p> + +<p>The difference in average water temperatures between one +side of the Cape and the other may have its effects on the local +weather. During the fall especially, when cold air moves over +the waters of Nantucket Sound they may be covered with fog, +whereas it can be bright and clear over the Bay, only a few miles +distant. The normal kind of fog occurs when warm, moisture-laden +air moves over cool or cold water, and is quite common<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> +in spring and summer. When a cold, dry air mass, on the other +hand, moves over warmer waters it may result in what is called +“Arctic sea smoke” a kind of wispy, steamy fog in turbulent, +rolling air, rising to ten or fifteen feet above the surface of the +water.</p> + +<p>During the winter Cape Cod is also subject to rapid changes +in temperature depending on whether the wind comes from the +northwest, with cold, dry, continental air, or from east and south +off the ocean, the latter being seldom below the freezing point.</p> + +<p>The tip at Provincetown has much the same temperature as +the sea island of Nantucket. On the other hand the town of +Barnstable on the lower Cape may have an average summer +temperature which is slightly warmer than Provincetown and a +colder temperature in winter, since it is that many miles closer +to the interior. I have driven down the coast from Boston several +times during snowstorms when an area as close to the Cape as +Plymouth was completely covered with snow; and as I drove +south the storms turned to heavy flakes of wet snow on the near +side of the Cape Cod canal and then to rain as I went on.</p> + +<p>The sea’s capacity to store up solar energy means that it exercises +a moderating influence on the Cape, which is warmer +during the winter than the mainland and cooler during the +summer. Also, there are less thunderstorms on Cape Cod during +the summer months than on the mainland, and the annual +rainfall is likely to be lower because there is less showery precipitation, +although local residents might be justified in thinking +that water was on them much of the year in one form or another, +as fog, salt spray, rain, or humidity.</p> + +<p>The late fall and winter is often characterized by cold, raw +windy days, with the temperature just above freezing or at the +freezing point, and the air is loaded with moisture from the sea +and sometimes smells of it. During heavy storms the wind drives<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> +the salt spray inland with great force, depositing coats of salt +on houses, telegraph poles, and wires.</p> + +<p>During the winter the Cape seems at times to be caught and +tossed between the weather of the sea and that of the continent, +but in general the principal air masses during fall and winter +come from inland and in summer from the southwest. Winds +from the north and west usually bring in continental polar air, +which is dry and cold, though it may also arise in part from +pacific maritime air. The source regions for many of the storms +of early spring and early fall are the Gulf of Mexico and the +Caribbean. Most of the severe spring storms, sometimes coming +after a fairly mild winter, are the so-called “coastwise southeasters” +which blow up the coast from off the Carolinas rather +than from the west. They can result in blizzards because their +coastal, maritime air if drawn into a low from the continent is +cold enough to make snow.</p> + +<p>Such simple generalities and fact sampling is not to suggest, +like the Chamber of Commerce, that more people ought to come +to Cape Cod, but that it is a land like all others, which is influenced +by the forces beyond it. It is no more gripped, pulled, +and let go by the weather than most other areas. In fact its +temperature made it a good place for the first English settlers to +find. Think of the Middle West in July, or January, for extremes! +Yet Cape Cod has a special place in the wind, an outside +hold on the roaming of the seas and the advent of the air.</p> + +<p>The tides that rise and fall along this ocean-going spit of land +are just as varied in their way as the weather, but more predictable. +They accentuate the difference between one part of the +Cape and another, and they are responsible for some of its physical +characteristics. Great tidal ranges on the north side expose +wide salt flats at low tide and allow the development of broad +areas of salt marsh in sheltered embayments, whereas along the +shores of Nantucket and Vineyard sounds, where tide ranges<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> +are much smaller, the marshes and more exposed flats are less +extensive.</p> + +<p>In Cape Cod Bay and eastward to the coast of Maine the +average tide rises and falls about nine feet, but in Nantucket and +Vineyard sounds the range is up to four feet at the most, being +as little as two feet off Woods Hole and in some of the salt ponds. +The time of high water varies also. It occurs four hours later on +the north side of the Cape than at Buzzards Bay.</p> + +<p>The Outer Beach is an area of transition so far as the tides +are concerned, and their range drops steadily from nine feet at +Race Point to four feet at the end of Monomoy. These diverse +tides, all along the shores of the Cape, are a product of its very +shape, and of the coast from which it juts out, astride the submerged +continental shelf, whose shallow water also affects them.</p> + +<p>It is the nature of waves—and a tide is a wave of a special +kind—to move more slowly in crossing shallow water, rising at +the same time to a greater height. Waves expend the energy of +their motion when they increase in height, an effect which can +be observed as they heap up before breaking as surf on the +beach. So the tidal wave moves in from far offshore starting with +relatively low ranges, some two or three feet at Sable Island off +Nova Scotia, with similar readings in Bermuda and the Bahamas; +but when it reaches the outer coast of the Cape it is +augmented. To the southwest of the Cape the increase is only +moderate, the figure for the entrance to Buzzards Bay being three +and one half feet; but moving north it gets much higher. To +reach the shores of the great embayment of the Gulf of Maine, +formed where the coastline drops away north and east of the +Cape, the ocean’s tidal wave must first cross the shallow waters of +George’s Banks, a passage that requires more than three hours +(which explains the later time of high water in the Bay). In the +process the tidal height increases to the nine-foot figure, a reading<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> +which is true of Provincetown, Plymouth, and on up to the +coast of Maine.</p> + +<p>So the Cape lies between two tidal systems, created and separated +by its geography. On the south side, incidentally, there is a +complex pattern of tidal movement caused by the fact that both +systems meet. Tidal waves enter the sounds between the Cape +and the islands of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket from two +directions and pass each other. The combined effect of this “interference” +results in rapid changes in the time and height of the +tide between Monomoy and Woods Hole. Off Nobska Point one +tidal wave movement is high, while the other passing it is low. +Their interference results in the smallest range of tide (one and +a half feet) to be found along the south shore. A similar minimum +tidal range occurs off the southeast corner of Nantucket.</p> + +<p>I am neither a trained scientist nor an accomplished sailor. +I am inclined to use facts for unfactual ends and do not have +enough knowledge of the wind not to be tipped over at any +time, but if you feel complexity and admire mathematics while +in a state of comparative ignorance then perhaps you have some +claims on knowing. Most of us have had a hand in observing the +weather or gauging the levels of the tide. Weather guessing or +complaining is second nature, and on the beach, or by means of +the pilings on the wharf, you can guess the tidal range quite +easily or judge whether the tides are in or out. On some level +below that we have air and tides in us that know the energies +of earth from past acquaintance, but we are much too ready to +mistrust these depths and to let other authorities do our work +for us. Perhaps our natural senses are becoming atrophied. In +any case, we do not seem to be sure whether it is the energy +of the head or of the heart that we should use for our purposes. +But put yourself in the middle of the weather and within the +reach of the tides and they sometimes begin to roam in concert +in as many ways and to the incalculable extent that you have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> +responses stemming from your brain. All the distant swelling +and swinging, the synchronization and intermoving of the waters, +becomes as real and immediate as the repositioning of the +sun and the changing of its shadows. The over-all wind; the light +that shines on the beach grass, moves over the pebbled ground, +and sparkles the sea, or turns it into a blazing white cauldron; +the knowledge of cold massive depths in one place, warm shallows +in another, come into feeling as both unified and infinitely +complex. I may fail at mathematics but be an unconscious mathematician, +judging galaxies by the ways of light before my eyes.</p> + +<p>At my feet, as I sit on the sandy ground on the cliff top, there +is a hole made by a spider, neatly defined at the top by a little +rim of grasses. Rabbit dung lies here and there. There are a +broken puffball, dried leaves, and seeds; and the wind has blown +so constantly over the level and open parts of the ground as to +take away loose sand and leave a surface of pebbles, which are +more or less stable, while mounds and hillocks are held together +by shrubs and grasses. These are evidence of a poor community, +holding down as best it can, though it is open to migrants and +migration all the same.</p> + +<p>What lies underfoot changes in a few hundred yards toward +vegetation which is a little more protected, and less exposed to +violent light and dessicating wind, with low oaks and pitch pines, +wood floors, with a certain amount of decaying litter, graduating +upward in the quantity of organic life, but the open, exposed, +diminished look of this environment also suggests its inherent +mobility with all the other component parts of this running +world, taking original light and shadow from the vast sky.</p> + +<p>The crow with its ragged wings banking away over the tree-tops, +the rabbit hopping into a thicket, the fish that school +unseen in the salt waters, the man who watches, are all manifestations +of a complexity of association and alliance that stops on +no single shore. Like our restrictions with respect to the horizon,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> +we only see, we only live, a fraction of the possibilities allowed +in so great a range; and being restricted, we oversimplify, cutting +life and land down to size ... a poverty that makes for poverty.</p> + +<p>I hear the steady pouring sound of the depths behind me and +I see and feel them rising and falling, taking their inexorable +passage around the Cape. The wind whistles through and like +the in and out of breath lifts and subsides. Field crickets trill +monotonously and faintly in competition with the wind. Crows +call. Seeds blow along the bare ground. A winged seed flies by, +next year’s fruition if it lands, this year’s providing, perhaps +destined to skim out over the surface of the sea. A flock of snow +buntings swings back and forth, twittering high in the air. Gulls +circle in the distance above a garbage dump hidden by the trees.</p> + +<p>In this landscape, here and out of sight, is a mutuality of response, +through the sea with its thousands of miles of variety +constantly in motion, and the land besieged by the sea, with +dry and infertile soil, but in a web of tides and climatic influence +that keeps its character actively in tune. Like the buntings, +or a flock of sanderlings spinning, sun reflecting, diving +through the heights above the shore, the opportunity of grace and +power is always waiting for its use, and nothing that lives and +participates can be called insignificant, from the cricket to the +crow. Diversity is the rule, and each form is exceptional in its +employment.</p> + +<p>Through any part of the earth there is a placement, the appropriate +condition for plants, animals, the soil, and its constituents, +to maintain themselves. The optimum is that there shall +be full use within any given range of opportunity. The more +diversified a living community is the more healthy it is, not only +in numbers, but in complex relationships. Even a “poor” seaside +environment proves this by the very demands it makes for survival. +The plants that adapt themselves to it do so by means +both various and precise. Even sand grains have a relationship<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> +to each other in the rhythmic order of wind and waves. The life +that comes to these shores, winging in, trying to take hold, blown +out, taking semipermanent residence, has its own affinity for +place, an organic knowledge of its own part in the physical +world. It belongs to an innumerable company with exacting +tasks.</p> + +<p>Each life proves the need of all others. In a miraculous way, +as each natural form is miraculous, the single is also manifold. +The rabbit, as it nibbles grass, calls in the hawk. The spider is +related, in its reproduction and survival, to the insect it eats. +The soil requires microbes to break it down. The growth of +plants is directed toward capturing the energy of the sun. Life +calls life in the context of earth, water, and sky.</p> + +<p>Throughout the wide landscape are a succession of environments, +with communities adapting to constant change, characterized +by so much mutual attraction and repulsion, so many delicate +balances, such a variety of response to influence inside and +out that there is hardly a stopping point for attention. We study +particular environments so as to predict and understand the +behavior of animals, the reaction in plants to variations in the +intensity of light, or to relative moisture, or to the chemical constituents +of the soil. Each place has its character, its complexity, +and bounds.</p> + +<p>But environment is more a characteristic of range than a separation +in its own right. All migration says so. The division between +a pond and its surrounding woodland is fairly distinct. A +pond is an entity unto itself. So is the division between salt +water and fresh. But the frog that lays its eggs in a pond may +travel through the woods during the summer. The salmon, the +alewife, and the shad reproduce in fresh water and grow up in +the sea. Eels do the opposite.</p> + +<p>In a sense each area has its representative, like the water birds, +from petrels that spend most of their lives over the open ocean,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> +to fresh-water ducks dabbling among the reeds. There are herons +adapted to spear fishing in the shallows; terns that dive for fish +in surface waters; others that swim after them under the water. +Some of the adaptations are so precise that if the particular food +supply of a species is endangered, so is existence of the bird +itself.</p> + +<p>On the other hand the very distinctness of each species, +sharp-billed, webfooted, with gliders’ or divers’ wings, seems to +impart range to countless others, those which exist and have +existed, those which may develop in a vast and unknown future. +The difference, the space, between a gannet and a dovekie, a +great blue heron and a frigate bird, proves all the depths of opportunity.</p> + +<p>As I look out on the waters to east and west, to north and +south, I either see or envisage banks of fog far offshore, warm +summer squalls, biting cold air, torrents of brilliance in the sky, +leaping and ponderous deliberation in the waves. Warm air meets +me from the Bahamas, cold air from the Arctic, and the migrants +pass me as they travel in between. This earth, regardless of +man’s construction of it, is always re-relating its contexts, playing +out new themes ahead.</p> + +<p>In this distance, near to far, there is force, and its limits, a +counterbalancing as well as intermingling in the land, weather, +and tides, and in almost hidden terms the concurrent response +of countless inhabitants: the seed makers and dispensers, the +hole diggers, the fliers, scuttlers, and divers, those that swim, +crawl, or walk. They take part in range after range of consumption +and growth, of trials and failures, with endless patience, +sudden quickness, flows of energy, going through death and the +travel-round of reproduction. They are dancers in a realm that +knows where all its leadings are.</p> + +<p>There are dynamic secrets underfoot. Lives dawn of which we +are entirely unaware. Can we bring ourselves down to their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> +great participation, waiting through dawns, attending the sun, +hiding under the reality of wind and storm, where obedience +means praise? Here is that universal guarantee of novelty and +increase which we try so narrowly to imitate, substituting our +simplicity for its complexity, our distressed communality for its +balanced crowds, our greed and invention for its terrible provenance. +Lord have mercy on us!</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">Who Owns the Beach?</p> + + +<p>In the “off” and empty season, after the tides had erased +all signs of a hundred thousand human feet, it was hard to believe +that the beach could be owned or claimed by any one. It +took on the air’s cold or warmth, receiving, passing things on, +from one day and seasonal mood to another, not as on the land +with its plant and animal reactions and obstructions, the hiding; +shadowing; coming forth intermittently; but in bold and naked +sight, reducing weather to its single qualities.</p> + +<p>One day the Cape would be sunny and comparatively warm, +and on the next in would come the authentic northern wind, +the polar air, roaring and sweeping around with fierce abandon, +riotously hard and cold, freezing the ground, cutting at a man, +diving on him with an icy weight. The winter wind is so definite +when it comes, overwhelming a fairly moderate climate, where +roses often bloom late into the fall and hollies grow, as to make +you think of icebergs, sliding down from the north unexpectedly +to stand hundreds of feet overhead. The sky, threatening snow, +writhes and purls up with gray clouds spreading fanwise like +auroras, and in the evening the sun goes down with a coppery +band on the horizon overhung by a bank of steely-blue clouds as +menacing as a shark.</p> + +<p>And the great beach received what came to it, retaining its +primal right to a deeper breath and regularity, a harsh “poverty-stricken”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> +environment where man has no lease worth the paper. +It did seem utterly deserted, although the herring gulls and blackbacks +flew up steeply over the wind-buffeted waves, then banked +and glided away, and draggers occasionally moved parallel to the +beach bucking the choppy seas, their lines out astern. The +wind threw stinging clouds of sand ahead of it. Except for the +fishermen and the gulls, it was an abandoned world, glistening +wide and cold, lost to importance and sense so far as human society +was concerned. For man there is no force quite so inclusive +as his own.</p> + +<p>Since the beach is comparatively empty and isolated during +fall and winter, the sight of life on its sands may seem as rare +as a rider approaching you across the desert. I remember what +an extraordinary thing it seemed one afternoon to see a tiny red +crab moving very slowly along, high-legged over the bare slopes +of the beach. I identified it later as a species of spider crab. Green +crabs, rock crabs, calico crabs, and others are common along the +protected shores of the Cape, but out on this stretch of beach +they are rarities. This baby, with its beak, antennae, and eyes +backed and covered by a knobbed and spiky shell, seemed like +an exotic from another world, which in fact it was, having been +flung in by the surf from rocks and seaweed forests in the waters +beyond it. It not only added to the beach, but to me, since it +made me realize that these sands were only shelving off into +further dimensions. The beach is a repository of freight, wreckage, +and lives from foreign lands.</p> + +<p>This also happens occasionally on land. We all know that the +sea is out there, that the wind swirls over us, and the storms +carry more traffic than planes, but strangers sometimes appear as +if to prove that no place is what it seems to be. One spring a +vermillion flycatcher suddenly appeared in the neighborhood. I +saw it in its exciting tropical gaiety as it flew down next to a +shining patch of spring rain on an asphalt road. It is a native of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> +Texas and New Mexico. Black or turkey buzzards ride the great +airs of spring and sometimes fly northward, wheeling unexpectedly +overhead. In November of 1962 I saw a black stork, <i>Ciconia +nigra</i>, which had somehow managed to make it all the way +across the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps managing to stop for rests in +such areas as Greenland and Newfoundland. It landed near the +Coast Guard Station, now National Seashore Park headquarters, +at Eastham, in an exhausted state, to be picked up by the Audubon +Society and later transported to the warmer climate of +Florida.</p> + +<p>The black stork breeds from Central Europe to Korea and +China, and it winters in Africa after a long round of migratory +journeys. Its advent was greeted with a certain amount of mild +curiosity and even some jokes in the local paper, one of which +had to do with its liking for Cape Cod scallops on its arrival. +What better reason for coming here! (The truth is that like other +newly captured birds, it had to be force-fed.) In any case it +was a rare event, joining Cape Cod with Africa, and to see it was +equivalent to seeing an antelope on Route 6. With large strong +wings, attenuated red legs, a long, stout pinkish bill, red around +the eyes, it waited in captivity with what seemed to be an air +of great sadness, transplanted as it was, taken in to a gray, cold +land without any sound but engines, human voices, and the +wind, without any greenery but the thin-needled pines; and it +roosted silently, twitching occasionally in its inactive unused +state, an unwilling, unwitting Marco Polo in New England.</p> + +<p>This is a narrow place, restricted by nature and by men, but +foreign lives still fly to it like sparks in the air, and the sea beyond +it takes things on their way with more room than analogy +is yet aware of. What the sea sends in, like a dead skate, a starfish, +horse mussel, or finger sponge, seems perfectly familiar as +fish, marine, background animals, but they are also genuine +primitives, remote not only from human physiology and complete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> +understanding but from that part of the earth’s surface that we +inhabit. In fact many of the hints of marine life that are either +brought up along the beach, or that appear in offshore waters, +like a whale or a dolphin, have a theatricality, an off-stage hint +of a wealth of other acts, tricks, and forms still to be seen. The +simple, primal watery element has embodiments of use which +are comprehensible and have been studied for a long time, but +these are endowed with physical natures and capabilities that +might make an air-breathing, earth-bound human quite envious.</p> + +<p>During a violent coastal storm, with winds up to seventy and +eighty miles an hour, an exhausted harbor porpoise was cast +up on a bay beach recently, and there it died. I confess I had +never seen one out of water or even close to me before. For all +the pictures I had seen, and all I had read, nothing prepared +me for such perfection. Its round body, four to five feet long, +was butt-ended at its head, in which there were small eyes, and +small teeth in the jaws. It had just as much of the quality of +flow as a raindrop, and at the same time was a solid packing of +energy. Its skin graded down from the jet black of its back and +upper sides through streaks of gray like rain along the sea down +to a white belly, and without scales, it had a thick, smooth satiny +polish like ebony or horn, perhaps reminiscent of synthetic rubber +or plastic but of an organic texture which neither of those +products could equal. The porpoise had a single fin on its back +and a tail that could strike vertically for power and thrust. Its +body was fairly heavy, weighing about a hundred pounds, but +everything of speed and liquidity and dashing, leaping strength +was reflected there. It lay on the upper part of the beach, conspicuous +among the long piles of storm litter, the logs, pieces of +broken dories, and thick seaweed, spectacular in its simplicity, +a black and white that made me think of breaking waves in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> +night sea. I saw it curve over the surfaces of the water with +consummate grace, slide away, and disappear.</p> + +<p>“Where did you ever see more of nothing?” I was once asked as +I looked out over endless dry Texas plains billowing like waves. +Nothing or everything. Who knows? Who knows what the emptiness +leads to or contains? The beach lies open. Its sands and +rattling stones lead back through ages of weathering and change +and are at the same time part of the wide give and take of the +present.</p> + +<p>The tiny spider crab, though isolated on the beach, was also +a link with a teeming offshore existence, which hid in shadowy +worlds of kelp and rockweed, or floated and roamed by with a +free energy that was in complete denial of our tightening fall +and winter world. Backed by a cliff, walking on sands shadowed +and cold, faced by the churning waves, it is hard to believe in a +life so rich. There are no rocky shores revealed at low tide and +streaming with weed to prove the temperate fertility of the sea. +The beach is a transition zone between one environment and +another, but except in those areas where the cliffs are reduced +to low sand hills, protecting a marsh or estuary behind them, the +transition is a sharp one, the sands dipping from the inconstant +sky to the constancy of salt water.</p> + +<p>Along those stretches of beach where the sea has taken stones +and boulders and deposited them offshore, storms sometimes +bring in fairly large quantities of seaweed, which need beds of +stone for their attachment. The fucus or rockweed, the laminaria +or kelp, and some of the “red” algae like Irish moss which are +among the more common kinds found along the beach, have no +roots, since the plants take all their nourishment from the sea +water that surrounds them, but are anchored by holdfasts, +stubby structures which in the laminaria may look like the exposed, +above-ground roots of some tropical trees, and in the fucus<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> +a round expansion of the tissues at its base, which is strongly +and tightly sealed to the surface of rocks and stones.</p> + +<p>Everything about these weeds, with divided, narrow, or tapering +fronds to resist being torn by the waves, with bladders +serving as floats, with gelatinous surfaces, with hollow stems, are +eloquent of the nature of salt water, its ebb and flow, its depths, +its capacious circulation. The seaweeds found on the beach, +black, thin, dried out, or fresh and slippery, olive green, brown, or +red, having been torn loose by a storm, start growing beyond the +violent action of the surf, and grow for the most part to a depth +of some forty or fifty feet. Different varieties like different depths, +but since they are not free floating unless torn loose they are +not found beyond the point where rays of sunlight, necessary +for manufacturing food, cannot reach them.</p> + +<p>Over and beyond them, in surface waters where the light +penetrates before being absorbed, is a vegetation, varying in +abundance according to place and season, but of incredible numbers +over all, the one-celled microscopic organisms that are the +basic food of all the seas. The seaweeds are simple and primitive +in structure compared with much of the plant life on land, the +more hazardous, contrary environment, and the members of +the phytoplankton (the planktonic plants), even more so, although +the diatoms, which form a large part of it, show a variety +of outer form. Each diatom has a skeleton, made largely of silica, +an outer shell hard enough to resist easy dissolution when the +plant dies. It is formed like a pillbox, or a casket, or it is shaped +like a quill, a ribbon, or rod, or it is joined with others in beads +and chains. Each is minute, an etched, crystalline perfection, +and each is lost in other billions, which we might only see on +occasion as a green or greenish-brown stain across the water.</p> + +<p>The shells of dead diatoms rain down through the water and +form thick deposits on the floor of the sea. The cliffs above the +beach are full of them. Cities have been built on their fossilized<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> +shells. In their number the diatoms balance the magnitude of +the sea. In size they are basic to the existence of the minuscule +animals of the zooplankton that feed upon them, and are eaten +by larger animals in turn. A diatom’s delicacy and sparkling +beauty as it reflects the light could indicate that universal productivity +must start with a jewel, and perhaps end with it too.</p> + +<p>That which is minute, like the diatoms, or cells, which are +the basic structure of life, is a clue to the significance of things, +leading from the simple to the complex and multifarious, but +finally rounding us back to where we started. A man himself is +the unique single cell with its own nature. Each life has its +irreducible quality. I have been told that if you look at a diatom +through an electronic microscope, from one increased magnification +to another, you can see all its protuberances and layers +disappear, and finally a sparkling crystalline form is revealed, +like a cosmic surprise.</p> + +<p>I suppose it is part of my fate as a large and clumsy animal +of the mammalian order, crashing through the underbrush, +knocking down trees, and displacing earth’s other inhabitants, to +miss a great deal, at least with my unassisted eyes. To learn about +some new form of life which I may have been passing by for +years is often something of a redemption. I can then say that +we have not yet been so run down by our own traffic that we +have lost the capacity to see.</p> + +<p>Not long ago a colony of bryozoans was pointed out to me, +at least the gelatinous crusts of the compartments in which they +lived, like little tufts and fringes attached to the fronds of seaweed +cast up on the beach. They are tiny colonial animals that +make cups and compartments joined together in branching +stems, from which they send out little crowns of delicate, filamentous +tentacles waving in the water. There are three thousand +marine species of them, growing in different forms, and having +different surfaces for their attachment. I had thought previously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> +that the little pale-colored, branched tufts were a part of the seaweed. +Now another small marvel had appeared on my horizon.</p> + +<p>The beach was empty where I walked, except for bird tracks, +tidal wrack, driftwood, bits of shell, or a finger sponge in evidence +of the life alongside it, and depending on the warmth and +receptivity to life that the season held, excepting also whatever +microscopic animals might be crawling over wet surfaces around +the sand grains. Again, emptiness, or poverty, is always qualified. +After all the copepods, the nematodes or thread worms, +and other groups unseen or unknown to me might be underfoot +in vast numbers; and as I continued on there was no counting +the number of little holes in the sand made by beach fleas or +sand hoppers. As the autumn deepened I supposed they were +unoccupied and deserted, since these beach dwellers, as I had +heard it, should have been tucked away in their burrows by this +time, with the door shut above their heads, waiting for March +and April to bring a warm sun which could tease them out of +dormancy. But one bright morning in the middle of November +I saw a great many of them hard at work.</p> + +<p>At first I noticed thousands of little mounds on the surface of +the sand in a strip some six to fifteen feet wide along the upper +part of the beach, following in general the outlines of the previous +high tide. Where a log or shelving bank was in the way, +these mounds, and the many holes accompanying them, about +knitting-needle size, were concentrated on the seaward side. I +noticed that shore birds had attempted to pluck the occupants +from their holes and had reached down two to three inches. I +scooped out the sand where a hole was, spread it around, and +revealed a little animal not over a half inch long, with two large +eyes covering the sides of its narrow head. The eyes were not +only conspicuous, they were also startlingly white; and the +sand-hopper’s body flattened on both sides, was a mother-of-pearl, +somewhat translucent. This odd creature, one of a family in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> +the order of amphipods, is called <i>Talorchestia megalopthalma</i>, a +title that gives special credit to its eyes.</p> + +<p>I put my pale-moon animal back in its hole, but to be held and +thrust against its own volition apparently immobilized it, so I let +it go free down the sands. After a second or two it made a few +big and seemingly crazy hops—on sidelong springs like a toy—down +a line of mounds and holes, popped into a hole and +promptly disappeared.</p> + +<p>I noticed that little spouts and bursts of sand were coming +from many of these holes and with a little patience I could see +some of the hoppers coming up as if to look around, as is customary +with gophers and chipmunks, and then turning around +and going back down again. What they were doing of course was +a major job of digging, passing the sand up from one pair of +legs to another and throwing it out the hole with a jerk. There +was hardly time or inclination to pause and look around the far +horizon. It was work that had to be done unceasingly, between +tides and between seasons. Perhaps, if tomorrow brought consistently +freezing temperatures, they might not appear again in +any great numbers until spring; but their usual daily round meant +frenzied feeding at low tide and after dark when no winged +predators were around, followed by another return to the upper +beach and another furiously energetic period of digging homes +for themselves. Terrestrial animals, which might drown after a +period of immersion, and yet bound on this strip of sand to the +tides, they had a more legitimate claim to the beach than most of +us.</p> + +<p>Looking down at them, or in on their busyness, I had an extraordinary +Gulliverlike feeling of encroaching on a world to +which I did not belong. It was one kind of an eye looking at +another without any sense of whether it was seen in turn or not, +in a dichotomy of function, race, size, and place. It took the +beach out of my possession. This was a place of other-world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> +connections at which I could hardly guess. Do we need to wait for +the men from Mars?</p> + +<p>These are extravagant animals, with their grandiose if relatively +blind eyes, with their feats of digging, their hunger +dance. In a sense they have a very narrow range, between upper +and lower tide, between one season and the next, between feeding +and digging on their strip of sand, between hiding and emerging, +and their life span is short; but what a use they make of it!</p> + +<p><i>Talorchestia megalopthalma</i> is now on my life list, as the +“birders” put it, a pearly prodigy of moon leaps that may, for all I +know, be the beach’s foremost citizen.</p> + +<p>I also caught a glimpse of another little animal as I turned +over a piece of driftwood. It had numerous legs (seven pairs in +all, I have learned), and a flattened body, though slightly rounded +on top, and oval in shape, reminding me of a pill bug or sow +bug, one of my most familiar landed neighbors, which can be +found under almost any boulder or log that provides shade and +moisture. The marine, or beached member of the family I met, +was grayish white in color, and apparently had the same preference +for moisture—if not too much, since it evidently lived at +the high-tide line, and was “terrestrial” like the sand hoppers. +Some of these isopods swim in the open sea, others live in shallow +water, or at the low-tide line, and most are scavengers, feeding on +dead animal matter.</p> + +<p>All these and countless others are symptomatic of a tidal +range, an ebb and flow that extends between sea and land in +terms of millions of years of emergence and adaptation. In them +the two worlds find their division and also their meeting and +intercommunication. Their characteristic areas, their “life zones,” +from the tropics to the poles, all require extremes of risk +and of the struggle to survive it. In one place or another they +dance to the inexorable measure of things, limited in what they +do but exceptional in their way of doing it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> + +<p>On this beach, so unique, so well defined, and at the same +time so widely involved, every upward surge of the waves and +every bubbling retreat sinking through the sand, every range of +tide, from the new moon to the old, every storm, every change in +the season, every day and every night, is embodied in existence.</p> + +<p>I would think it presumptuous of me to claim any more on +behalf of a bug or myself than we could in our honest natures +fulfill, but faced by the shining tides of life, I am sure we have +great things to do.</p> + +<p>My translations are on this beach. I am still a part of its +measure, and when I forget those overwhelming controls that +human power insists on, and all the artificiality men use to +overcome their natural limitations, I begin to partake in this +miraculous context. It is a cold beach, a bitter sea. Covered with +cold, the sands impersonally receive the shadows moving over +them tall and wide, gradually shifting and easing over slopes +and shoulders toward the surf with its continual lunge, its pull +and push, displacing the pale light that stands over the beach and +gives it a hard winter brightness. The waves pour and foam +and bubble up the beach and recede with a rainlike glistening +and seething that sinks in, leaving dark stains behind. The middle +part of the beach shows long thin lines like scars where the +last tides came, part of the never ending drawing and erasing on +this tablet of the sea’s art. It is all clean, and naked, defined, +and at the same time rhythmically boundless, providing everything +that comes to it with an inexhaustible dimension. It needs +another language, and at the same time no language could really +encompass it. In this bold breath and silence moving up, scene +shifting, always starting again, there are decisions of sun and +waves, of wind and light, that leave me with a true silence, a +great room to fill, though it is in my blood and veins, the roots of +me to feel, and any companion whom I meet must be in an +ancient earth sense completely new, with a freshness made of a +million years.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">Deer Week</p> + + +<p>The wind buffeted the sea surfaces so that they were +loaded with whitecaps. A black and white fishing boat was bucking +up and down offshore. It was a bold and empty day. Aside +from the two men that I could see in the boat, the shore was a +world unoccupied, bright, wide, and cold, one about which the +mass of us might care or know very little.</p> + +<p>On the other side, where marshes and inlets entered from the +bay, black ducks cast themselves up into the wind, and mergansers +rode the choppy waters. The bay also ran hard with +whitecaps; and the wind with a bare fury roared head on at +empty summer houses facing the north, and drove across headlands +glistening with bearberry where pitch pines on slopes in +its lee would suddenly take the hard air with a swish, rocking +and shaking, then subside to shake again. The wind brought +the whole north with it and the gulls that hung there or rose +steeply into it, were allied with its violence in a way that was +hard to understand.</p> + +<p>Halfway between these two realms there was a great deal of +human preoccupation in evidence. It was deer week, early in +December, and the pitch-pine woods resounded to the firing of +guns like the hard slamming of doors, and down the highway +at least every other car was loaded with hunters dressed in red, +and on nearly every sandy side road several cars were parked. +Later on, I even saw a man standing on the cliff looking out to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> +sea, and I wondered if a deer might have escaped him in that +direction.</p> + +<p>Regulations now required that men wear yellow-orange luminescent +patches on their backs, so when they all trooped out +of their cars like spectators at a football game, they seemed as +covered with neon lighting as a city street. In fact many of them +do come from cities to the north and south of the Cape, which +can now be reached in much faster time than used to be the +case, and they follow the same pattern as many of the summer +tourists, in and out, fire and run. For those who live away from +streets and highways, deer week can seem perilous. The lookouts +stand blocking the side roads and sometimes park their cars +across them. They troop whooping and hollering through the +woods where I live. The guns resound from all points of the +compass.</p> + +<p>Earlier in the season is the allotted time for shooting game +birds. One afternoon I met a number of men who were returning +from a hunting expedition on the shore. It had been fruitless. +One man had managed to shoot a partridge on the way, but +he ruefully admitted that someone had stolen it from the back +of his pickup truck. Crowds of hunters started straggling back, +while guns were still going off in what seemed a completely +indiscriminate and probably frustrated fashion.</p> + +<p>“Pretty hot around here today!” said one old man with great +cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>I was helping one of the hunters extricate his station wagon +from a muddy hole, and by that time I had a feeling that, like +many other human enterprises, hunting was a communal affair +which might turn out one way or another, but like a battle, had +no certain outcome. It was clear, in any case, that very few of +these men had much of an idea about the habits of the animals +they were hunting. Some species of ducks, for example, feed +more readily after sundown and so are more easily found, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> +more vulnerable. A half century ago, the population of wild +fowl was probably less safe than it is now. A yellowlegs, flying +up out of a marsh in late autumn, did not have much of a +chance to start south. Some local hunter was waiting in anticipation, +someone who probably knew the marshes and the shore +as his ancestors had known them.</p> + +<p>If the hunters had an unlimited season on this narrow peninsula, +Cape Cod would be in a state of siege the year around, +regardless of what happened to the ducks, partridge, quail, or +deer. We have the universal problem of room and numbers. After +all, the human population is increasing at a faster rate than +most birds. Perhaps our populatedness results in less concern for +the rest of life simply through lack of association with it. Do we +know what we are shooting at? Hunters who blast away into +flocks of eiders or Canada geese, leaving many of them wounded, +unable to retrieve the rest because they are too far out in the +water, are not doing anything but getting rid of their feelings, +which are not necessarily worth cherishing.</p> + +<p>The deer population may not decline because of hunting. +Their numbers, their balance between starvation and survival +depends largely on the kind of country they live in, on its vegetation. +Cape Cod is only a half mile in width in some parts of +it, seven or eight in others, but down the middle of it there is +a wide belt of low growth, of tangles, shrubs, and low, cut-over +woodland which provides good forage for deer and good concealment, +even with the human armies in their midst.</p> + +<p>Hunting deer is thought of as an American heritage, our birthright, +part of the Thanksgiving celebration, handed down from +fathers to sons. Since deer are one of those species, unlike their +predators the wolf and the mountain lion, that have managed +to live abundantly in the presence of man, so much so that they +sometimes require “weeding” to save them from starvation, hunting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> +them is as legitimate as it ever was, provided the hunting is +controlled; but we no longer need them as we did.</p> + +<p>Having left the age behind when venison was our essential +meat, we now have an odd relationship with the white-tailed +deer. In some states more deer are killed by cars than by hunters. +They are directly influenced by human civilization. In turn, +civilization is dependent on them to the extent that they provide +the basis for a multimillion-dollar industry. We think that it is +our hunter’s right that deer should exist, but we are not the +hunters that we used to be. What is a deer for? Guns, gasoline, +clothing, ammunition, whiskey?</p> + +<p>The fact that they are still wild in the midst of us may be +more to our advantage than any claims we make on them. They +are afraid of man and keep their distant beauty from him. The +heritage <i>they</i> keep is wildness, which still has the power to +arouse fear in us, and sometimes pity, as we may pity all life, +including our own, that is cut short or broken by the inexorable +laws of the universe.</p> + +<p>On that December day during deer week, full of cold air and +the sounding guns, I saw a doe walking across the road, some +distance ahead of me and not many yards behind the beach. Two +cars had just roared by with hunters in them, before she made +her appearance. She seemed either wounded or exhausted, going +very slowly, pulling her hindquarters stiffly behind her. +When she saw me, that white flag of a tail flew up and she +went off the road up a slope into the woods, but with only moderate +speed. And then the doe shivered somewhere on the cliffs +under the all-mastering winter air, a legitimate prey of men, +who turned up their car heaters and sped away.</p> + +<p>Later on I found deer tracks on the cliff tops where I walked, +and a hollow where a deer had rested and bent down the grass. +I could see the hunters sitting or standing all along the shore +road, waiting with rifles ready, walking into the woods behind,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> +getting in and out of their cars; and their “ho!,” “hah!,” or “garr!,” +sounded across the way. After a while a number of them began +to hurry ahead, almost tumbling as they ran, to converge on a +deer which had apparently run to the bottom of a hollow. They +surrounded the hollow on all sides, many men standing on their +car tops with rifles pointing down. Whether there was actually a +deer in view, whether it was shot, or managed to escape, I never +learned. There were too many guns in the neighborhood for +comfort.</p> + +<p>The doe moved on slowly through the stunted trees above the +sea, not too long for this world perhaps, and the fishing boat—a +very rough trade on that day for common flesh and blood—rocked +forward through the waves. After a while the darkness began to +fall, with a thin smoky yellow and pink band on the western +horizon and a new blanket of gray clouds mounting overhead, +so that all of us began to turn in under the cold breath of night.</p> + +<p>I wonder, in that light which changes for us every hour, every +minute of the day, through the wild wastes of the sky, through +the countless years of earthly inheritance and change, how we +became so overmastering in our numbers and needs, so divorced +from the exactions of nature? Shall we meet up only with ourselves?</p> + +<p>Perhaps all hunters, those who know their deer, their mountains, +and their forests, with an ancient admiration, and even +those who abuse a hunter’s “right,” knowing nothing but confusion, +are trying to keep in contact with a natural mortality +which our world denies. Perhaps we need help from other animals +besides the human one.</p> + +<p>Everything in this landscape, from gulls and ducks to driftwood, +marsh grasses, and deer, had a vital distinction. The beach +with its perpetual reshaping and scouring worked on each stone +and lifted each grain of sand, so long as there was stone and +sand. The gulls hung overhead, colors fitting the shore and sky.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> +Even the boat had a fittingness, a sea size of its own, and so +with feathers, logs, or purple stones, all in solitary nobility, but +swept and washed into a mutual keeping by the air and the tidal +presence of the sea. I asked it to show us light and life which +was our undiscovered own to help us through our mutual violence +and upheavals, our narrow days.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI">XI</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">Impermanence Takes Its Stand</p> + + +<p>Just as the sand bars offshore change shape continually, +and the beach loses and gains in volume and elevation, so the +plants and trees work so hard to hold on in their shifting ground +that they never reach a climax state. They are pioneers. Such a +place is open, as all earth’s shores must be, to drifters, like the +black stork.</p> + +<p>The driftwood that lands on the beach and sometimes piles up +in great numbers and bulk on the upper tide level after a storm, +could come in from almost anywhere: Africa, Brazil, Massachusetts, +Maine, or Nova Scotia, depending on how it was transported, +by ships or by the sea itself. Years ago, sailing ships +traveling along the Outer Cape with cargoes of lumber chained to +their decks might encounter heavy seas and be in serious danger +of grounding on the shoals, in which case they would occasionally +jettison the cargo, which would land up and down the beaches, +to be picked up by those famous human scavengers, the “moon-cussers.” +Since such lumber was often in the form of planks or +studding, it supplied many a family with material for their +houses. I can think of at least one house which is largely constructed +of it.</p> + +<p>Or as it happened not so many years ago, a log jam in a Maine +river broke the boom and the logs went careening and dipping +down to the sea, a great many landing after a while on the Outer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> +Beach. Huge trunks of trees sometimes appear, carried in by the +sea. I have found cherry, red and white pine, cedar, spruce, +beech, and even some canoe birch with the bark still on it, a tree +not indigenous to the Cape. Mahogany and walnut have been +found at times, and a few years ago the cross section of a tree +was discovered near Eastham that turned out to be a very hard +and heavy wood from Brazil, probably fallen off a ship. Parts of +dories, or larger vessels, broken oars; buoys of all colors and +shapes, glass floats from lobster pots, branches, logs; boards of +many different sizes and lengths, wharf pilings and planks, and +dunnage, timbers used in stowing ship’s cargoes, cases of scotch, +always, in my sad experience, without the scotch; crates from +vessels of all the world, South American, Russian, Japanese, +French, and most of the nations you can name; all these and +more have been carried by the sea, sometimes for twenty or +thirty years, until they were finally landed on the beach. It is +wood for the fire, a house, a shack, or a table, and material for +any curious scavenger, on behalf of aesthetics, science, or history.</p> + +<p>The driftwood is a migrant, to move again soon, unless it is +taken off the beach, burned in a fire, or lodged and buried deep +above the high-tide line. It may serve temporarily as a place where +seaweed and other litter gathers, or where crustaceans might +congregate. The birds, if it is an accessible clump of branches +fingering over the sands, rather than a log or heavy timber, may +peck through it after such tiny animals, their tracks making a +delicate tracery running under it and arrowing away. Driftwood +migrates like the sand and the birds. It is another aspect of +the surf’s swing and draw, its dragging out, its removal and its +deposition, part of the constant remolding of this shore.</p> + +<p>On the cliff tops too, over the beach and the round horizon, +everything goes out and round and returns. A curve is the only +rule. As it does everywhere on the Cape, the wind goes across +from one direction of the compass or another, streaming with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> +light and moisture, lifts up, lifts you to it, and with long low +swoops, sudden breaths and seething, it whisks the waters of the +marshes and inlets, rounds their brown shoulders, races through +trees and over cliffs clean through across the sea. The land under +it, held down more definitely than beach or dunes, also waves +as they do.</p> + +<p>The heights above the beach, the low dipping slopes and +hills, though vulnerable over long periods of time, foot by foot +and yard by yard, look unrelievedly intense and bold. They +glisten under the open light, the open draws of the sky. There are +miles of scrub oak, bayberry, and beach-plum thickets shining +as if they were wet with light, or, in the winter months, purple, +maroon, and diffused with blue like a mist. This is where the +fox and song sparrows gather, and the myrtle warblers. There is +a sound of leaf ticking and branches tapping together above +the pouring of the surf.</p> + +<p>Sandy tracks made by beach buggies claw through wide +patches of huckleberry, which have red or bronze leaves and conspicuous +red tips to their branches in the fall, and in other areas +the ground is held by beach grass and sometimes wide mats of +shining bearberry, or hog cranberry, green and purple with +bright-red berries under their leaves. Wide patches and hollows +of blown sand are growing with Hudsonia, “beach heath” or +“beach heather,” which is a soft gray green, and has golden yellow +flowers, changing to darkening gold before they die, flowers, +incidentally, which have a faint but sweet scent to them. Sometimes +they are accompanied by “reindeer moss,” that seems to +hold on tenuously, since its gray-green fronds crumble up and +blow away, though in point of fact each of these fragments can +lodge again in some other area. In the grayest of weather this +lichen seems almost luminous, having a sea shine in the rain.</p> + +<p>Piny hollows circle behind this spare vegetation, the trees +with burnt-orange leaders killed by salt spray, and oaks, often<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> +dead at the top, along with a great range of scrub; and until +recently when building was curbed by the National Park, new +clumps of cottages and half-finished roads appearing all the time +in new areas.</p> + +<p>The cliff-top landscape is irregular, tilting up and down, dipping +back as a rule toward the west but in varied planes. Just +above the beach its hollows are scoured out by the wind, almost +denuded of vegetation, deep cups with drops below them sheer +down to the beach. I have seen the remnants of house foundations +in such hollows, or a creosoted pole or two sticking up +above the surface of the sand, not too old by the look of them, +proving what an ephemeral habitation such a place can be. +Where the low growth holds on, sometimes in masses, like bearberry, +or in patches like the Hudsonia, it too lacks a certain +finality, giving a free, waving look to the surface of things. On +the other hand this vegetation is definite enough. There is no +fragility to it. It is scraggy and tough. The strong shrubby growth +may be held down but it also gives the landscape a symmetry +and economy; it does not give the impression of being hit or +miss at all but very definite and sure of its place, as sure as wind-struck, +salt-sprayed plants can be. Each plant stays rooted from +place to place through this sandy earth, being adapted to intense +light, drought, and constant winds, holding on hard against +being scoured out and displaced, and ready also, to move into new +areas. Beach grass, especially, has this ability to move in on newly +deposited sand, or where “blow outs” have occurred, areas in +which the wind has finally blown the sand out from under the +plants formerly rooted there.</p> + +<p>So this patchy, heathlike region is held down in substance, +temporarily, if not in form, adapted to the constant changes +made by the wind. Closer to the cliff’s edge there are likely to +be hummocks or mounds, like those of the dunes. A high hummock +may be held down by beach grass and have a core of bayberry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> +bushes with only an inch or two of leaves and branches +sticking out at the tops. Beach grass, bayberry, seaside goldenrod +live in close if embattled communities, at least with respect to +the wind. These plants and others may all join in holding such +hummocks or mounds together, while the Hudsonia in rounded +clumps holds and extends its grounds across the level sand around +them.</p> + + + +<p>There are two principal species of Hudsonia by the way, +ericoides and tomentosa. Both have been called “poverty grass,” +but the name is usually applied to tomentosa, which is the more +common of the two. They are not always easy to tell apart. The +ericoides, sometimes called golden heather, has tiny spinelike +leaves that stand out fairly distinctly from the stem and each +other and it is a plant that stays green for a much longer time +during fall and winter. The tomentosa is densely tufted, downy, +softer in appearance, and it turns gray, or bluish green, being +subject to winter kill more readily than the other species. On +Nantucket at least this plant used to be gathered, dried, and +used for fuel.</p> + +<p>The Hudsonia are “xerophytes,” plants that are adapted to extremely +dry conditions. Their tiny leaves offer a reduced surface +in the face of intense sunlight and therefore do not lose water so +readily. A “succulent” like the seaside goldenrod, on the other +hand, has large fleshy leaves for storing moisture, another adaptation +to drought conditions. This region is no desert. Even the +term semidesert has to be used with caution. Its annual rainfall +is the same as the rest of the Cape, but it is relatively unprotected +and lacks the topsoil needed for the plants and trees not +adapted to it to send down roots fast and deep enough to get +moisture. The beach heather, stem-rooted like the beach grass, +probably evolved in an alpine environment, where conditions +were considerably worse than they are on Cape Cod at present,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> +and moved in to the Cape during the postglacial period, remaining +ever since.</p> + +<p>Still, the unprotected, dry ground is eloquent enough of the assault +made upon it, and the eroding cliffs with the plants that +hold down the ground above them become part of the fierce +sweep of time and oceanic weather. Here is a lesson in exaction. +Perhaps those omnipresent Cape trees, the pitch pines, show +the hard effects of a sea-edge environment more obviously than +most. They cannot survive too close to salt water, but a little +farther back the results of wind and salt spray is to kill their +leaders on the windward side, dwarf them so that they grow flat +on the ground like the Hudsonia, or to tie them in knots.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp40" id="i084" style="max-width: 102.1875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i084.png" alt="Scrub trees on the dunes"> +</figure> +<p>Everything has its method of survival. Each gradation of the +ground, each hollow, slope, or level area, has a life to fit it or to +visit it. The plants move forward seeking water. The birds fly +through the thickets hunting seeds or insects. The exaction +lies in a frame of reference. There is a quality of trial by the seashore, +of odds, which taken care of by a mere plant, seem no less +formidable. Their success in coping with the situation within its +limits and precise needs is allied to all life’s insistence on success.</p> + +<p>We put great emphasis on the flowering parts of a plant, and +certainly the golden, summer-yellow of the Hudsonia, growing +in bunches like bouquets, is rare and beautiful over the bare +ground with the blue sea stretching beyond; but this plant is +also rare in its restraint. Its tuftlike branches, its leaves, spiny +scalelike or coarse textured as they may be, have a beauty, a +resourcefulness which is the end result of ages past human +knowledge of them. They are a successful experiment in creation, +artfully finished and well related to the world.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XII">XII</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">The Depths of Sight</p> + + +<p>Where is that eye to the sea beach and the sea that I +might enter, to follow further than I know? There are so many +unfinished depths suggested by the surface of things. A wet, +white and gray pebble of quartz has the kind of grain that leads +off to snow and rain and all the watery and windy associations of +earth history. A feather, fitted, barbuled, light and strong, holding +the air, refracting the rays of the sun and using them for its +colors, has the horizon’s curve and the graces of the sky. The +bryozoans on the seaweed tell a deep and primitive tale about +the salt water and its animation. We should not be so impressed +by our powers of assessment as to take things merely at their +face value. To see more than the outside shell of the landscape +I suppose we should be ready to admit its depths and whatever +takes part in them, admitting also, that we are limited in our +own capacity.</p> + +<p>It is not necessarily what I see as I walk the beach that might +make sense to the world but what sees me, even though it can’t +write a book or drive a car. In the eyes of birds for example is a +special kind of closeness to truths of nature which we might only +see through a glass. Their very distance from us seems to prove +it. Look at a herring gull and you see an animal with less intelligence +than a goat, but with the same ungiving topaz eyes. I +kept a female brown thrasher once for a week or two and there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> +was nothing her sharp yellow gaze had for me but a constant +glare, perhaps nervous or agitated but not to be deciphered otherwise. +Consider the eyes of an alligator. They are not even +revealing enough to be called “enigmatic,” which might be a +misleading word in any case, implying some half-human wisdom +like a sphinx. Its eyes are mere sunlight openings, cracks, and +crevices. Its lids are turrets, drawn down on a bit of nameless +colored water. Other animals, other societies, receive natural +messages in ways that may have no more excitement in them +than the reflection of a cloud passing across the surface of a pond, +and still they may know what we do not, and the place they +live in and respond to is our envy to discover. The strict, close +relationships in the world of life, the life of earth, result in +sensitivities which are no less rare for being divorced from self-knowledge.</p> + +<p>That scavenger the herring gull may be just as lazy as it looks. +Human civilization has done nicely by it. It can live off the +“produce” of our dumps during the wintertime, when it would +otherwise have to work for a living. When a gull is standing +around on the beach looking as if it were doing nothing, and we +ask why, imagining the same specific purposes we think we ourselves +pursue, we might be disappointed. As likely as not, the +gull is doing just that, nothing, and will fly off at some stimulus—hunger, +another gull, a plane, a man, or a shadow. And yet it +is the bird’s association with the seashore, its response to the +currents of the air, to changes in tides and weather, to the sun’s +appearance at dawn and the departing light of evening, that lies +in its own sight. It is just possible that you cannot exaggerate the +effect of light on the physiology and actions of a bird. At least +it seems to be of primary importance in the cycles of migration. +So in a herring gull’s cold eye is a receptiveness not so much +qualified by intelligence or the lack of it, but inextricably, directly +connected with the world of light. When birds and animals<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> +react to me, and why leave out any man or child, even if it is +only in answer to an “escape mechanism,” I see a vision unexplored.</p> + +<p>One morning several hundred gulls, herring and blackback, +were congregated far below and ahead of me as I walked along +the cliff. As soon as I appeared on the edge, casting a shadow +over the beach, they took wing, even though I was at least a +quarter of a mile away, and they rose in one heavy flock and +beat slowly away down the sands and the surf line.</p> + +<p>Not long afterwards I saw an Atlantic, or red-throated, loon +swimming just offshore, tall necked, its head looking off and +alert as though the bird, like a pilot in his house or a watcher at +the masthead, was on a constant lookout. When it saw me it +glanced wildly and ducked head first, over and down, slipping +under the water.</p> + +<p>On the same day, a few miles further along, I saw two harbor +seals of good size, swimming twenty or thirty feet outside the +beach. First one dark head appeared above the water and then as +I watched through field glasses from the cliff top two big dark eyes +suddenly looked up at me, and the seal dove, followed by another +one a few yards behind. The two swam through green rolling +waters parallel to the beach, coming up every half minute or so, +their swimming forms like shadows slipping through the sea. +The harbor seals, though intelligent and appealing animals, have +suffered great persecution by man and are much less numerous +in Cape waters than they used to be, so that the sight of these +two large specimens at home and roaming along the shore was a +great pleasure to me, and above all I enjoyed having made some +contact with them, as I did with the birds—the mutual life +touched on, an electric communication made between one far +pole and another.</p> + +<p>Sight in our sense of the term involves symbols in a very +special way, but it is part of a universal trial of knowing and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> +reception, and in animals without consciousness and means of +assessment this may mean more than automatic reaction to light. +I think of a crowd of newly hatched minnows like tiny slivers of +glass, running up and quivering through the water. The most +definite thing about them is their large black eyes, contrasted +with a bodily transparency so fragile as to seem past fragility, an +artifice of growth on balance, in a chain of universal actions that +might have their matrix in a dream. Those large eyes are the +eyes of first attainment. Sight is the expression of an alliance +with the world in lives twitching and quivering toward mutual +attachment and effect. It may be the gift of misery or adoration +in a man. It is the opening of gates in a child or an animal new +to life.</p> + +<p>Perhaps when you look at, if not in to, a fish’s eyes you are +looking at depths of water, an animate fluidity. In its senses +there is a watery knowledge with a supremacy of its own. What a +lightning and at the same time a listlessness there is in them, +in their hurrying ways through currents of fluid light, and their +suspension in its stillness! Many of them only last for a day or a +few minutes before disappearing as a food for other animals, in +the mercurial depths of water allied with life, this intoxicant, +this terror.</p> + +<p>My sight meeting that of a gull or seal crosses and contains +this landscape, environment, or place of existence with its own +eye and its own depth to find. The expression of water, sand, +and sky leads vision beyond itself.</p> + +<p>One quiet, moderately cold night when the mist hung so low +over the water and beach that they were closed in, but at the +same time illuminated by the moon, I saw the port and starboard +light of a fishing boat that looked to be only a hundred yards or +so away down the shore. I kept walking toward them with the +illusion that the boat was moored close to the beach, but after a +couple of miles the lights were still receding and I turned back.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> +The tide was close in and sheets of foam pitched in and dragged +back with a sound of rattling stones but in gentle rhythm. It +was a quiet sea, and beyond the surf I could detect little strikes +of light, the curling over and stirring of white and silver. Up +through mists and wisps of cloud the moon appeared intermittently, +riding above the water. The beach was covered with soft +airs, its distances diffused in gray and pink and pearl, a mood of +ambiguity. I felt that whatever I might hear or meet up with was +out of my control, at the dispensation of the world in and beyond +the atmosphere, having unknown connections light years away +and joined with fish and moon and speeding globe. In this isolation, +a familiar place turned inexact and mysterious, I felt I +might sense all sorts of far nerve ends tingling out of the night +behind the mist. We receive very little of what reaches us out +of this tribal universe, whose messages light through us unseen +and unheard until we, as individuals, are turned to the dust of +the sky.</p> + +<p>Night or day, the sea and sea beach offer their changing +spaces of light. One afternoon in January, halfway between hours +of warmth and hours of cold, rain and snow, morning and evening, +the sea off Nauset was racing green, spray tossing off the +tops of the waves that simultaneously paused, curved up, and +broke down in thunder. The whole sky was full of cloud featherings +borne over before the wind and along the horizon out to +sea were colors of lavender and gray, and pale-green openings +like caves. The wide, steep beach was full of gloss, with a roll +and fire of its own, and above it fringing the edge of the sandbanks +the beach grass curved out and waved. I felt a resonance +in the beach, a tremendously heavy and vibrant tone, the tonnage +of sand and surf in harmony along with a low moan from +the sea’s lungs.</p> + +<p>Small flocks of black ducks quivered over the water and then +flew in to Nauset marsh. Then the heavier Canada geese beat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> +in with stalwart wings, to thin out from their V formation to a +long line as they wheeled in low against the wind and then +regathered as they settled down on the marsh.</p> + +<p>Blackback gulls glided low across the outer line of the surf +and sometimes their shadows appeared on the curving wall of a +wave. Herring gulls soared in the heights and then beat forward +on sinewy wings like flounders pulsing and beating through the +water.</p> + +<p>One gull flew down the beach with a ribbed mussel which +it had found on the marsh and dropped it from high in the air. +Then the bird retrieved its food and tried again, taking a chance +on whether or not it would strike some boulders and break, since +this is a haphazard and not a very knowledgeable game with the +gulls. They pick up the habit from each other, by example rather +than inheritance. Sometimes it works and just as often it does +not.</p> + +<p>The seaways of soft feldspar green foamed and flew, and the +clouds ran. Thin black strings of seaweed lodged in the sand +were waggling back and forth in the wind. There was a swish +of milky surf up the beach. Over the uncountable numbers of +sand grains, each with its own size, shape, and color was a clean +radiance, even a magic. Because in this realm of wide, majestic +use, of continual advent, each offering was still of a proportion +perfect for its moment in time. Each single action, the silhouette +of the straw-colored grasses curving before the wind, or a gull +shadow on a wave, a crystal grain sparkling in the light, was of +such an excellence as to defy category or name. And they were +magic and miracle in their shape and ways of use because they +had life’s inveterate sanction, and that above all else is not +subject to lessening or degradation in this world of nature.</p> + +<p>Like the lights that appear under the mist, or over the open +barrens of the sea at night, like St. Elmo’s fire on the <i>Pequod</i>’s +mast, there are electric tricks playing on the horizon, perhaps at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> +all times, since there seems to be no end to light’s action over +the waters with the sky’s depth behind it. As I walked up the +beach there was a radiant white patch hanging up in the soft, +scudding overcast, not in the sun’s direction—reflected off the +water perhaps—but having a wild aura of its own. It gave me a +feeling of communication with something which had a right to +awe. We may have passed the primitive stage, but the primitive +respect for what was beyond human control and the magic used +to propitiate it or bring it to play may still have their sources. +The light and its manifestations is still too quick for the eye, or +for the facts.</p> + +<p>Science itself goes on proving that there is no infinite exactitude +and that many things can only be explained in terms of +probability. The fact that nothing is stopped by our constant +search for a simple solution to life is what keeps science in business. +The search into the nature of cells finds them full of inner +whirlings, the motion of countless component parts, of a universal +restlessness. They are structurally fantastic and each kind is manifestly +different. Our voyage toward the invisible is unending. +The molecule or the jellyfish, seen through one human lens or +another, retain their share of the marvelous. And if we marvel, +we are still capable of learning.</p> + +<p>A radiance above me, a changing freshness in the air, between +warm and cold, a shudder of wings over the beach, another language +of unexplored dimensions, life expressions understood in +terms of sight and spirit, and still to be learned—the nonhuman +advents that pass the limits of a man. There is a common realm +of action and perception, whose boundaries we may never reach, +where men can be more grateful for their belonging than their +isolation. It is part of the changing state of inanimate things, +the response of lesser forms of life to the construction and motion +of the world that invades them and which they invade, and +it is acted out by the mind. The tidal waves run through us all.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> +To see as men see and merely to react like a moon snail or a +horseshoe crab to the difference between light and dark are two +representative actions in the same vast realm of response.</p> + +<p>Do men belabor the special nature of consciousness too much, +as if it were some kind of A-1 badge that separated mankind +from the rest of animate creation? Consciousness must be infinitely +more mysterious, more connective, than any attributes +we may assign it of personal distinction.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIII">XIII</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">The Flight of Birds</p> + + +<p>The appearance of migratory birds in fall and spring, or +simply their constant activity, suggests their range. The ability +that a gull displays in the turmoil of the air is enough to bring +other winds to these shores, to make you realize that the beach +joins the long shore line between Cape Cod and Florida, that the +waters to the north of us move on toward Labrador and Baffin +Bay. Their wings are allied to the circulation of the North Atlantic. +New England is not so far from the Arctic Circle, and +when the auks, the old squaws, or the buntings come down to +Cape Cod in the autumn they bring the proof with them.</p> + +<p>We have had an appalling record this side of the Atlantic, +of decimating the population of sea birds, which are more vulnerable +than other species because of their nesting habits, on +islands or rocky foreshores. The great auk has gone, and the puffins +reduced to small numbers. If we were able to kill them all +off, either on purpose or through lack of responsibility, what +little island people it would make us!</p> + +<p>The very colors of a murre, or a razor-billed auk, a contrasting +black and white like penguins, suggest the black cliffs and +rocky headlands where they evolved, the white snow and ice, the +cast of deep and icy waters. One June day, when the beach at +Race Point was glaring with light, and all the winter leavings, +like the twisted dead stalks of dusty miller, were being replaced<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> +by a freshness in the shine and scent of things, I saw a dovekie, or +little auk, on the beach a few yards away from the water. It is a +very small bird, though conspicuous enough with its penguinlike +stance, its black and white plumage, and though it was in full +view of a number of bathers no one saw it. When I approached, +this seasonal anachronism ran rather than flew away from me +down the sands into the water where it promptly dove out of +sight to bob up out of harm’s way many yards offshore. Since +most dovekies return north in late winter, I supposed it was a +“nonbreeding straggler.” They migrate south in the fall to more +temperate waters not locked in ice like their home feeding +grounds. Over a period of years and at unpredictable times, +there are “Dovekie wrecks” when these birds are blown inland +by gale winds and show up in the most unlikely places: ponds, +back yards, side roads, gardens, filling stations or shopping centers. +Since they are not able to take off from land with any ease, +if at all, they are vulnerable to predators of all kinds, provided +they survive exhaustion and starvation. Some years ago I saw a +number of them lying dead for several miles along the Cape Cod +highway.</p> + +<p>The dovekies are messengers from the north. The way the +gulls use the wind as it is deflected from the waves, or ride into +it, hovering, then gliding down, is symptomatic of the sailing +skill of other birds that travel far beyond the shore, the aerodynamics +of the open sea. They are masters of the art of air as no +plane can ever be. I remember watching some fulmars in the +wake of a ship one wind-tossed day, the great blue-green waves +in rocking fullness shouldered with foam. They glided between +the crests and troughs of the waves with effortless deliberation, +and then lifted, curved away in a wide arc, and returned. Back +and forth, they seemed to tip the waters surface with their wings +and clip the waves, gliding and curving with them, expending no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> +excess energy at all. I felt them rise on the upward air in my +lungs, my admiration.</p> + +<p>In birds you see pure action personified, an endless spontaneity +reacting to the air, the season, the light, and on clear nights +the constellations that may help them find their way. A flock of +red-backed sandpipers or sanderlings, all spinning, wheeling, and +sun-reflecting at once, have an ecstatic dash, a common brightness +set going in them which must carry them a long way. They +are long-distance migrants flitting from one end of the earth, +one shore line to the next, and judging by their actions it is hard +to believe that they could ever rest. Searching for crustaceans +or sand worms along the beach, they run on flickering black +legs, bodies tilted forward, flitting, bobbing in syncopation. +When close to the surf they may fly up briefly when it piles in +and then drop down again when it retreats. With their quick, +automatic run, and heads constantly jerking forward and back +they seem to be endowed with an almost comic gift of hurrying.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, with a sharp piping cry a sanderling flies off the +beach and then disappears like a gray chip over the water, a +tide bird faster than the tides, where there is no following it. This +bird is quick and sweet, and cleans the earth of too much hesitation.</p> + +<p>Of all the birds that visit the beach during fall and winter I +take most delight in the snow buntings. They have such freshness +in them, skimming the cliffs, rushing by like bits of foam. +The white in their plumage is so pure, snow paths between +markings of black and cinnamon, like briers and weed stalks, +with suggestions of greenish gray when the sun shines on them. +They are birds of the Arctic tundra, companions of the musk +ox. They fly up suddenly, as they are constantly doing at the +least disturbance, their whiteness dancing up above the beach or +along the faces of the cliffs, and then settle down again, pecking +away, at home in wastes and barren land, the lonely stretches<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> +of the world, these are flowers, snowflakes, foam, fitted to a poverty +and its freedom.</p> + +<p>They are seed eaters like sparrows, and may also eat such +tiny creatures as they find along the beach, and they are always +flocking and scattering out from one rise and level to the next. +To me, the fanciful difference between buntings and sparrows, +sanderlings, gulls, horned larks, and many other visitors to +seaside lands is their trait of invisibility. It is not only their +whiteness—they look almost entirely white seen from underneath, +appearing and disappearing like clouds—and a plumage +which belongs to the accents of sunlight, grass stalks, dune shadows, +on the bare ground—but their actions. With a motion +reminiscent of the roller-coaster type of flight which the goldfinches +have, flocks of buntings will pour down onto the cliff top +or beach, spread out and then fly up again, with an inner billowing, +a dipping, and rising as they go. Twittering with a note of +tinkling bells in the high air beside the bowling sea, they swing +and then burst in gentle snow flights across the ground, through +one opening, one neat run, one clean escape to another. They +turn the invisible into reality. They have a continual lift, the +agitation inherent in all life. They fly up ahead of me as sparks +out of the unseen rest and center of things.</p> + +<p>Another bird of the tundra, a specter from the far north which +appears irregularly over the years during wintertime to hunt for +rodents and occasional birds along the coast is the snowy owl. +I remember seeing a mounted specimen when I was a boy +and thinking it was the most desirable thing on earth to own, +and since I never did own one, the snowy owl stayed intangible +and magnificent in my mind; and the first live one I ever saw did +nothing to disabuse me of my impression. They migrate to +beaches, salt marshes, and islands along the coast, choosing elevations +as a rule, hummocks, knolls, or dunes from which they +can survey the surrounding countryside during their hunting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> +season, watching the man or beach buggy arrive as well as evidence +of prey. The one I saw was way down the south end of North +Beach, that stretch of Nauset beach which ends at the straits +separating it from Monomoy. It was perched on a hummock, and +at first was nearly indistinguishable from the top of a white +picket fence buried in sand, or the kind of white marble marker, +rounded at the top, which you might see on a roadside in Vermont. +We were driving toward it in a beach buggy and when it +flew off low with big, soft, bowed wings, its feathers, white and +flecked with gray, took on a blue-ash hue from the winter light +and the uneven shadowy land around it. The great owl lighted +calmly on another hummock further on. It stared straight at us +out of fierce yellow eyes, with inscrutable dignity, and when we +turned and came at it from another direction its head almost +swiveled all the way around, looking at us from over its back. It +kept its place in center stage.</p> + +<p>Many thousands of eider ducks winter in Cape Cod waters. +During October and November especially they can be seen shuttling +back and forth across the sea beyond the Outer Beach. +Some feed, principally on mussels, in the bay region or off Chatham +and along other shallow shores and inlets, but the majority—an +estimated 500,000—spend the winter over the shoals between +Monomoy and Nantucket. Seen close to, as they fly low over the +water, they are as sturdy, clean shaped, and of good design—the +red-brown females, and males patterned in black and white—as +a coastal vessel, a dory, or a skiff. From the beach you can see +them fly over water in single lines, sometimes as much as a half +a mile or more in length, with a steady, throbbing flight, like a +suspended string of beads, alternately white and brown.</p> + +<p>By contrast brant fly in longer, thicker lines, and sometimes +show up like shivering black specks high over the sea. Well into +December the gannets pass by over the sea surfaces too, flying +singly for the most part, their broad white backs and long black-tipped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> +wings reflecting the sunlight as they turn, to dive in their +grand manner down, from fifty feet or more in the air, hard and +bold into the water, sending up jets of spray.</p> + +<p>Clutching at any aspect of nature is to seize a drop of water +in your hand. Ebb and flow passes the great beach, the eternally +wide ebb and flow of day and night passes the cliff tops, all +earth’s shadows wave across its seas, and yet this is the precise +route of the birds, their direction and their home. They know its +guidelines inwardly. For us, who put so much emphasis on outward +instruments, this can be almost impossible to understand.</p> + +<p>Still, we can exaggerate the division between us. We are all at +home together, however we use the stars and seasons in our separate +ways. Men are as subject to mortality as birds, even though +the latter can’t dwell upon it. They in turn are vulnerable to +chance, to disease, to going astray and meeting with mishaps +when confronted by the freakishness and violence of the weather. +Many a duck or sea bird, caught on a lee shore or in a marshy +inlet during a great storm may be unable to rise into the wind +and is exhausted or swept away and seriously injured while trying. +Life and death, joy and disaster, go wing to wing. Birds +have less capacity to deceive themselves than we, being unable to +avoid the perils of nature and at the same time its protective +power.</p> + +<p>I had similar thoughts in mind one day in November during a +violent coastal storm while watching some gulls, ringed-bill and +herring, together with a few shore birds, that were gathered at +the head of an inlet along a relatively sheltered part of the Bay. +The Outer Beach was of a violence that day which could hardly +be approached, either on foot or in contemplation. Even here the +storm winds were relentless, hard and cold, flicking and driving +the sands along the shore, whipping the marsh waters behind it +into a froth. Sanderlings made short, low, flying hops back and +forth, but were unable to do their usual free hurrying and basket-swinging<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> +flights along the shore. The gulls stood in shallow water +facing the wind, water that was being whipped and lashed, and +sometimes they would drop down sideways a little before the +wind’s force, thrown slightly off balance, acting like a man who +has been cut across the face. Taking to the air just above the +ground they would find difficulty in maneuvering and were +forced back, sometimes fifty feet or more, to continue standing +where they dropped back to the ground; but even in this they +showed a certain supple power, a control aware of its limits, +the sinewy economy of wings lifted in the wind, the plain sky +beauty of feathers gray and white. The storm was ending, although +the water was still being whiplashed into foam. The light +was very cold and the sky line was heaped with sunset fires.</p> + +<p>Surely everything, everywhere, was vulnerable, and yet it was +that bird closeness to such primal powers as might seem to us +bitter, alien, and cruel—the gods of the north, of the waters and +the winds—that gave them an essential balance, a rightful place. +That great sky of theirs was unexplored. It came down to me +that regardless of what he learns, there is so much for a man to +go on asking.</p> + +<p>What can birds tell you, other than displaying those traits of +aggression, or fear, or mutual attraction, which we may recognize +when observing their behavior? We have a little fear in +ourselves, when looking on, that we may go too far in mixing up +our own traits and terms with theirs; but each will manage to +keep his territory, untransgressed by the other, and each takes +part in the high order of nature. Watching the birds, I have seen +ceremony, ritual, love-making, display, all worthy of admiration +by the most glittering of human cultures. The speech of men and +the speech of birds do not divide us altogether. In silence is unity.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the most eloquent thing about birds is that which +we will probably never learn to decipher. In his study of puffins, +R. M. Lockeley refers to their “subtle, silent-gesture language.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> +That language is part of a still more silent order, the dark realm +of existence where all their actions and necessities have their +play. Approach with patience and with care.</p> + +<p>One day I had walked for several miles along the cliffs toward +Eastham, through thickets of scrub oak, and bayberry that smelled +very pungently in the fall of the year. The sky was full of shifting +winds and the day as I walked full of weather changes, from +an edge of cold to warmth and back again. An early sun began to +be covered by pale-gray clouds and there was a mauve light over +the sea. I caught sight of a little wren along the way, and there +was a number of sparrows, both seen and heard—song, chipping, +seaside, and probably others. It was a low, shifting thicket world +full of potential surprise, bordered by oceanic sound, rocking +with light and air.</p> + +<p>I retraced my steps a few hours later over a narrow sandy +road, at times no more than a track, and I saw a pigeon hawk +flying off ahead of me, stroking deliberately and quickly with its +long wings. Then I noticed another one roosting on a broken-off +tree several hundred feet back of the cliff just outside a wood +of pitch pines. The first one made off in that direction too, roosting +not far from its companion on a dead stump, and they both +stayed absolutely still, like falcons on an Egyptian frieze. I could +hear a blue jay screaming somewhere in the background.</p> + +<p>I noticed feathers scattered on the path, gray and blue, blowing +ahead of me; and then, there it was, a blue jay freshly +killed, its breast bare of feathers and shining red like some rock +wet with sea splash in the crimson path of the setting sun. What +kind of a game led up to this? Could the two hawks, one tempting +the jay by its distance, the other scaring it by its proximity, +have managed to send it out into the open where it had no +chance against their swift and effortless pursuit? I walked ahead +for a short distance and then waited, watching through field +glasses for the hawks to come back. The nearest one did, after a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> +few minutes, beating down tentatively over the kill, then rising +again and leaving with its supple flight. The other had moved a +little closer and roosted on an abandoned telephone pole, full of +an ancient poise, wonderfully still. After that, I am sure, they +never went back to the road until I had gone for good. The +grace and tension, the space in that formal scene stayed with +me for a long time.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">The Marsh</p> + + +<p>The Outer Beach is broken only at Nauset Inlet, where +the tidal waters pour through an opening that has frequently +changed its width and position, and at Chatham. The Chatham +break leads in to the wide area of Chatham Harbor and Pleasant +Bay. In both places, but more especially at Nauset, where the +marshes and the inland shore behind them are protected by the +beach and a sandspit some two and three-quarter miles in length, +an unstable, but at the same time fairly constant equilibrium +is attained between sea and land. It does not seem obvious that +this should be so at all. The sandspit looks only too narrow and +fragile, and at intervals it does show evidence that the sea has +broken through. Driftwood logs lie on the cuts made between its +hummocks, headed as they were when the sea subsided, after +it had lifted them in toward the marsh.</p> + +<p>Except for the great volume of the beach itself, which is maintained +in collaboration with the forces of the sea, it is hard at +first to understand why the marsh should not be inundated. Why +does that lord the sea not heave in and overwhelm this sandy +barrier, flooding over the marshy flats and islands, and wash up +permanently against the inland shore?</p> + +<p>The shoulders of the low cedar-studded land slope down to +the edge of the marsh with a neat, trimmed look and neat +houses, seemingly confident of being in residence indefinitely,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> +although I have heard people who live there talking in ways that +suggested they were not sure of it. Once see those stormy waters +heaving and rushing over the sandspit and you cannot be sure +of anything. Looking out at the sea, even from a fairly safe distance, +you can find eternal balance and at the same time inundation +and disaster. Now that the Outer Beach stretches past the +miles of cliffs and is no longer backed up by them, becoming +an outlying stretch of sand, its own “protective” power might +seem much less clear. On the other hand, when was this beach +in anything but a state of flux and change? There is protection +in that, even if it is hard to define. The fact is that the relationship +between the sea, the beach, and the sandspit, the marsh and +inland shore, has been maintained for ages in the past and probably +ages to come. In general the volume of sand that is packed +along the shore balances what is removed from it, but only in +general, for the time being, because erosion takes place consistently +over the years and during its course more sand is removed +than delivered. Also a standing equilibrium is kept between +this deposition and taking away of sand and the conditions offshore: +the currents, drift, wave height and direction, the changing +shoals and bars. All these states and forces are involved in +an extremely complex kind of order, and it is certainly broken +and rearranged all the time. A season may show it, or the records +of history. In fact, changes occur from day to day.</p> + +<p>When the young explorer Champlain visited the Cape in 1605 +he sailed into Nauset Harbor, and at that time, judging by old +records, the inlet was about halfway down the sandspit behind +the beach. Since then it apparently has moved about a mile +south, but its entrances have changed now and then, with long +periods of relative stability in between, which might be broken +at any time and then followed by some new arrangement of +forces.</p> + +<p>In his <cite>Birds of Massachusetts and Other New England States</cite>,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> +Edward Howe Forbush pointed out that this long protective spit, +or “beach ridge” extending from Nauset to Monomoy had been +pushed back a considerable distance, perhaps a mile, since the +early seventeenth century. It used to lie far to the eastward, judging +by early charts, of where it is now, and took the form of a +long narrow island some twelve miles in length “with several +small islands north of it and outlets to the ocean at either end—the +northern one at Eastham and the southern lying between the +end of this beach ridge and the Chatham shore.”</p> + +<p>“In 1854 during the great storm that wrecked the lighthouse +on Minot’s Ledge, the sea broke through the barrier into Orleans +water at Nauset, and afterwards much of Nauset Harbor near +the entrance filled partially with shifting sands.”</p> + +<p>The recent Woods Hole beach studies report that: “The spits +literally broke into pieces and the inlet itself became quite complex +in 1957. Nauset Inlet has done this before. A study of +coastal charts shows that Nauset Inlet opened hard against the +cliffs on the south side from 1856 (the first good chart available +to us) until 1940. Charts of 1941 show that in a single year a +spit grew from south to north against the littoral drift and shifted +the inlet a mile to the north.”</p> + +<p>For some length of time, the storms of 1956 and 1957 resulted +in two entrances along the spit, one of which closed up subsequently. +Other temporary break-throughs can be seen along the +spit, varying from 150 feet to a few yards across, extending down +its length until it joins a broad, high stretch—almost a long mount—of +sand which ends at the present inlet, with North Beach on +the other side. This sand is subject to storm flooding and to +winds, to being removed and added to, recut and carved by the +waves, and except on the marsh edge of it, beach grass is not +able to gain a foothold. In recent years four or five hundred pairs +of terns have nested there, and are protected.</p> + +<p>The volume of this sand is immense. It shelves down steeply<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> +toward the water where it becomes part of the beach; and where +the channel of the inlet curves in, the ends of the beach on both +sides keep changing their lengths and relative position. The sea +builds high shoals off and around the incoming tidal channel +during one season and it may level at least parts of them off in +another. During the summer of 1962 the ribs and bottom of a +boat at least thirty feet long was revealed on one bank of the +inlet at its mouth, and could be seen for months; but by the +winter of 1962-63 it had completely disappeared. A sandbank +lay over it which was at least five or six feet higher than sea level.</p> + +<p>Aerial photographs taken when the spit broke up in 1957, +and afterwards in 1958, show a very elaborate and confusing +pattern. Shoals and separate spits began to drift, to join and +separate, shift and intermingle in curling, curving folds, an +interwaving and repositioning of sand materials that would seem +to have no parallel in nature.</p> + +<p>The Nauset Inlet is being driven into the marsh behind it at +an average rate of about 2.8 feet a year, except in years of extreme +erosion. This figure is about the same as that of the cliffs, +and on the whole it is probably somewhat less here than there, +although the marsh area is being very gradually diminished in +extent. Its wide channels and bays, its marshy edges, islands, and +flats, are held in the balance of great forces sweeping along the +shore, or occasionally breaking through in violence. Although it +absorbs and releases the tidal waters with ancient calm, it seems +wide out, subject to the sea and a part of the complex, barely +understood forces that build and break along the shore.</p> + +<p>The marsh is a refuge for ducks and geese, and gunners for +centuries have waited there for the “whistlers,” or goldeneyes, +and the black ducks to whir, swing in, and careen overhead under +the wide light of dawn while the cold wind ruffled the open +water and stirred the matted grass. Like the tides that flood in and +fall, like the marsh grasses that grow and wave, then die down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> +and take on their matted winter look, or the marine animals that +swim in through the tidal channel and go out again to sea, it is a +place of flight and motion. The local animals, crabs, clams, mussels, +snails, the salt-water minnows in the ditches, the marsh +snails, and numerous others, must go through their cycles of +growth and death and decay here, the building of interlife relationships, +but the over-all feeling that I have had about the +marsh is a certain bare economy, as though it was more obligated +to migrant forces, to flooding in and flooding out, then to any +enclosed stability of its own. In a way it has the wide, flat isolated +look of the more sheltered and extensive marshes on the +Bay shore, but it is an isolation bound to the open waters of the +sea which run through it and sometimes threaten its borders.</p> + +<p>After their green summer and early golden fall, the marsh +plants and grasses darken. In November the marshes are still +russet, umber, and yellow green, but by January they are dark +brown with reddish tawny tones in matted grasses having the +coarse texture of a deer’s coat. The saltwort plants, so fresh and +green and full of salt juices in the summer, have turned dry and +white, curled over at their tips so that they have the look of singed +wool.</p> + +<p>When you walk behind the sandspit the marsh flats seem to +stretch far off toward the shore and the channels between them +are partly hidden. Nauset from the landward side, on the other +hand, looks as if it were mostly composed of water, especially +at high tide. It is both a good country for low-grass lovers like +sparrows and those that ride its watery lanes and lakes like +ducks and geese.</p> + +<p>Low-flying, drab little seaside sparrows fly up off the grass +for short distances and then disappear again. Occasionally I +have flushed a meadowlark that planed up over the marsh. +Horned larks peck in the dunes, tripping forward with a stamping +motion of their legs, and then stop, to stand with a backward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> +slant to their bodies. They fly up suddenly with shrill lisping +cries; and all the while the deep quacking of black ducks sounds +from far out in the middle of the marsh. There are always +gulls, far or near, with their slow gliders’ fall and rise on the +wind. The great blackbacks fly heavily overhead, sometimes +wheeling in circles over the inlet with a muted baying, or hoarse, +guttural calls; and with their necks and heads stretched way +out and their wide-spread wings they might be mistaken for +gannets.</p> + +<p>Red-breasted mergansers come in from the sea with their thin +heads and bills straight forward so that in flight they become +throbbing arrows sent from a bow. One evening I stood in the +hummocks of the spit facing the marsh while flock after flock of +Canada geese flew in overhead, bugling as they came, close +enough so that I could hear the fine high whistling of their +wings, and even a rattle and rasp of air through their feathers. +Low-flying planes often start them up as they feed in the marsh, +along with the wary black ducks, whose cloudlike flocks stray +back and forth for a while before they settle down again. A +black duck’s wings show white underneath and they seem to +spin as it flies up high and fast and changes direction, like a +weathervane.</p> + +<p>Quivering, soaring, swinging flights set out over the wide +marsh, and the bird fleets ride the waters. The goldeneyes follow +one another bobbing along in a channel, along with mergansers +and occasional buffleheads, whose white heads or sides +suddenly shine out as they round a corner. A rush and glide +of water shows brightly in the distance when an eider plows +quickly forward. The Canada geese feed over the marsh or on +the borders of its channels and ditches, honking low, the sentinel +ganders with their proud heads and necks showing above the +grassy levels around them. One afternoon when I was walking +across the coarse cover of the marsh—which seemed to stretch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> +far off like the pampas, with its indefinite sky and a wide-spread +travel of birds—I caught sight of a deer running up behind +me, some fifty yards away. It was a doe, with a dun-colored +winter coat; and seeing me, she swerved suddenly and headed +out toward the middle of the marsh. The waters of January +are bitterly cold, but the doe swam a wide channel to get to a +small island in the middle, and there she stayed, shaking and +scratching now and then, stirring around in an area that became +more and more circumscribed as the tide began to rise and +the waters widened. I left her a couple of hours later in the +gathering dusk, a dark, distant little figure, hunched up far out +on the marsh. Deer can swim for several miles, even in icy +waters, so she undoubtedly swam back after I was safely out of +the way, perhaps after dark when the tide started to go down +again. Still, I was troubled by what I had caused, and I came +back early next morning to reassure myself that she was gone.</p> + +<p>When night comes on, the dark flat marsh has a look of absolute +secrecy. The cold winter wind completes its isolation. +A few last birds may fly up over it, or twist and cry in the wind +and then drop down and disappear. What quick movements, +starts, flicking actions, what flight there may be left is at last +hidden, downed completely, and the wind and surf sounds wash +out all else.</p> + +<p>There is secrecy and at the same time a desolation in the +marsh, the desolation of life pared down to absolute essentials. +It offers no luxury but motion in its tidal context, an absolute +minimum of redundance. It is a spare unity, even with all its +life and light, and the colors that play over it throughout the +years, a whole which only accepts those parts which are necessary +to it. This marsh is on its own, with ancient standards of +simplicity. To find fulfillment in them would be luxury indeed. +The lights begin to go on in the houses that stand over its inner +shore, as evening advances. A plane drones in the sky. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> +marsh’s flat, wind-blown darkness is alone, and seems to say +that all life is received by those bare standards, that we are all +helplessly interdependent and obligated to tides that none of +us can turn.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XV">XV</h2> +</div> + +<p class="centerbold">The Uses of Light</p> + + +<p>In the face of what it offers, I have said very little about +the great beach. In some respects it is indefinable even as a +geographical entity, in spite of the fact that it represents a range +of sandy shore line that extends for thousands of miles to the +south of it. It fluctuates so, and it is so closely associated with +the sea in that respect, that the term “transition zone,” while +generally appropriate, seems a little misleading. It is made of +land materials but it is not exactly a land boundary. Cape Cod, +whose Outer Shore it defines, is as narrow and exposed as a spit +or shoal by comparison with the continent behind it. In any +case, the beach in its grand exposure, its instability, seems closer +to the sea than land, and that may be the reason why many +visitors, bound to the inland world of human claims, have often +expressed the feeling that it looks untouched.</p> + +<p>Small white waves on the sea surfaces beyond the beach may +scud like birds while surf and sand are resplendent in green +and silver; or an evening wind from the north blows over sandbanks +and beach grasses, coming on in hesitant rushes, the gray +waters conflicting over shark-gray shoals, and clouds standing +off over the sea. Sometimes the surf strikes and hisses like +snakes curling along the sand. Sometimes it rises up with green-marbled +surfaces, roaring and falling with ponderous formality. +Beach and sea are always involved in mutual storms and plays +of light, mutual readjustments beyond our control.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> + +<p>The beach is naked, malleable, ready to move and be moved. +It is invested with the vast balance of the oceanic tides. It is +part of the systems of wind and weather. It is a receiving ground +for light. For these and countless other reasons it is a power, +with an expression made up of all its communicant and communicating +energies, their substance, and formality. It sweeps +on in a long curving line that is a definition not only of a bound +but a horizon, a sea, and a sky. It expresses growth and the +stunting of growth, destruction and its holding back, the violent +storm, the offshore summer swell, the heat and cold. Many +languages, heard or unheard by human ears are in it, and much +that is unknown to us. Its long roving ways invite a man to the +space in which life is shaped and perpetuated, invite him, in +a sense, to where he is unable to go, where nothing is promised; +but it is human perception and realization that it brings out, +not security, a man’s coming at the size of the natural realm with +its unceasing winds, where the birds fly in with a grace and +concordance that he will find he knows, by virtue of a primal +inheritance.</p> + +<p>Life has particular, even narrow, definitions, like those distinct +levels of the beach to which different species are adapted. Plants +and animals that live in the sand, on the cliff tops, or on the ocean +floor beyond the surf, have been responding in the same way +for millions of years. All this is well known to natural science. +In fact, to make too many ignorant and loose generalities about +it is probably an offense to the circumstances; but together with +precise conditions goes a vast scope, a space, and a speed like +the overworld racing of the ocean tide. The beach and its sands, +the waves that cut them away or build them up, its long roaming, +and its give and take with respect to the sea, involves a balance +that cannot be separated from the globe itself, with an age and +a future where time is nearly lost. Seaweed, crabs, shells, fish, +or birds are all ancient, exact, and well defined. (It may take<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> +hundreds of thousands of years to change the shape of a head +or a claw.) They are also part of a motion which is not changed +into a machine by being called perpetual. In any case, each +form, through the countless passages of light and dark, was +endowed with a joyful resistance to finality.</p> + +<p>Within the shifting landscape of the sea beach all action, +each affinity, and each response, seems controlled and at the +same time free and exemplary. The elements agree in making +the junctures of light unparalleled. Here are the eternal crossways +of tides, wind, and sunlight, full of an indefinite potentiality +that comes more clear to human eyes because of their lack of +obstruction. I think of one area in particular which combines +this wide range of view with conflict and meeting more than +most. Where the great beach has its last break at Chatham, before +the long sandy island, or sandspit, of Monomoy, the tide races +through and behind it into Chatham Harbor, and toward the +west it flows between Morris Island and Monomoy into Nantucket +Sound. There is so much intermingling of currents and +tides, so many effects of sky light and clouds and direct sunlight +spreading over this area, together with sea smells and varying +winds, as to give it an effect of constant remaking and realliance. +From the Morris Island shore the surf shows up in the distance +above the long low barrier of the Outer Beach like a mirage of +waves and when the north wind flings back spray on their crests +they might be great dolphins plunging forward through the sea. +The cloud masses shift and change, tall in the spring or autumn +sky, over sand and long stretches of green and blue water.</p> + +<p>Morris Island’s sandy, wind-punished shores are full of dead +oak and pine, the oak still standing in many places stripped of +its bark, a slick stonelike gray, and the ground is covered with a +tangle of thickets and beach-grass perimeters all leading to +a rim of salt-marsh grasses that joins with sandbars and tidal +flats beyond. Through spring and summer and during the early<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> +fall when the shore birds have not yet migrated, shoals and +bars and flats are covered at low or half tide not only with +shifting light over shallow waters but a silvery crying. Wind, +foghorns, gulls screaming, shore birds piping, sometimes the +faint or bell-like notes of inland birds, planes, perhaps an occasional +ship’s bell heard or imagined, all sound through the +seasons.</p> + +<p>During the winter the channels provide some shelter and +feeding grounds for ducks and of course the gulls station themselves +here and fly up at all times. This point where the tides +turn a corner is a contrast in force and influence. There is the +rolling and tossing of the open ocean not far away; local waters +are agitated by the wind, colored by sun and sky, and always +running in or out along the shore; there is a tidal rip in one +area where currents meet; a great rushing tidal stream at one +place, calm, easing waters in another. Within the framework +of tides and storms water changes the shape and volume of the +sand as it does along the Outer Shore. There is a holding, a +circling as the Atlantic waters meet and turn. The earth seems +to toss with all their rhythmic interplay. Flying or flying sounds +are in the hands of oceanic light and surprise. There is a special +tension in things that responds to a great order and sway.</p> + +<p>Whatever animals come here to subsist, or migrate through, +have an alliance with this energy, a tidal intensity of their own, +taking part in all the contrasts and conflicts of the environment. +During the late spring for example, you walk from a relative +silence on the Morris Island shore to wide breath and sound +a hundred yards away. When the birds are nesting leafy tangles +and trees collaborate with them in their concealment. Singing +has died down. There are only occasional calls from small birds +half-hidden in the leaves, flying from one protected spot to another, +and now and then the nestlings make squeaky or rasping +little cries in the demands of hunger, but just beyond them the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> +sky is open and bright with action, and there is no need to hide.</p> + +<p>In spring and summer the terns are in constant bright evidence +over the open water and the sands. The woodpeckers and +the sparrows stay with trees or grasses; the terns are birds of +the ocean airs and long white shores, their complement and +grace. Thousands of terns nest at Tern Island, on the shore of +Chatham Harbor, and through the summer months and early +fall there are always a great many off Morris Island and +Monomoy, diving for fish. They are sharply made, lithe fliers +with a nervous excitability that is peculiar to them. Flocks +will hover over a stretch of tidal water where schools of small +fish are running and they will fairly batter the water, making a +loud sound like paddle wheels as they cover it with points of +spray. Hundreds, crying harshly, hover some five or six feet +up, dropping and rising continually. Many of them dip forward +with wings folded slightly, but others, a little higher up, make +steeper dives, hovering against the wind, their wings beating +hard, to drop, twisting slightly, and then dive with wings back +and head down, sharply and precisely. I have thought that terns +seldom miss when they have a fish in sight, but during this +kind of mass fishing, particularly when they dip forward as if +to pick the fish up and try again, it does look like a matter of +trial and error. Also, depending on the season, there may be a +number of immature birds in the flock that are not as skillful +as their elders.</p> + +<p>The terns are expert performers in every way. They are small +and light with strong, angled wings that can carry them over +thousands of miles. They have range, persistence, a bright balance +that carries them through the mighty and punishing wilderness +in which they live. At the same time, that lovely harsh +crying excellence in the form of a tern is fragile, even ephemeral. +Terns, in the early period of their lives at least, are expendable, +like fish. Common terns especially have large breeding colonies<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> +that are extremely vulnerable to human encroachment as well +as rats, cats, dogs, skunks, and other marauders, and they definitely +need protection. Their existence as a race is hazardous +under the best of conditions. The sandy islands or peninsulas +which they use for nesting sites may be flooded by storm tides +in the spring, destroying thousands of eggs or young birds. An +adult tern might live to between fifteen and twenty years of age, +although their annual mortality is 23 per cent, and their +chance of reaching adulthood is fairly slim, tern mortality in +the first year being about 92 per cent.</p> + +<p>The hard statistics make short lives of many species, while +the sun and sea keep their steady and infinite relationship. +There is a quality of sacrifice in all life. Nothing is spared in +its duration, and at the same time in the uniqueness of its +making, as the fires burn. The results of evolution may seem +haphazard in many respects, and the processes of nature to involve +enormous waste; but natural continuity holds all things +in high honor, through the fine balances of life and death. The +forms of fish or tern, with their own transmutations of energy, +are as excellent as they are perishable.</p> + +<p>The tides run the channels with an almost sentient, purling +calm during the burning days of summer and early fall. They +lift into marshy shores and over sandy flats, and then subside. +Sometimes the fog comes on in the afternoon and the deep +foghorn groans through sheets of silver under the wind, a low +curtain moving on and parting slightly here and there, the sunlight +showing intermittently. Tiny black snails move over the +flats at low tide, some absolutely still, others moving slightly +with black antennae protruding and their feet probing forward. +Small fish dart in the pools and hover in the tidal currents. There +is an over-all mewing, chuckling, and crying, with an occasional +“huh, huh” from a gull flying slowly overhead, as the light shifts +with the breath of wind over water.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + +<p>Gray and white ring-billed and herring gulls, occasional laughing +gulls with black heads and red legs, and terns, preen, stalk, +stand off in the distance, and fly up intermittently. Ringed +plovers run hurriedly forward over the sands and through the +shallows. A yellowlegs, tall and limber, stalks, bobs, and probes +along an edge of the shore. Black-bellied plovers, big-headed, +short-billed, stocky by comparison, trot through the waters, standing +up straight at intervals, while the yellowlegs suddenly races +back and forth on its hunt for food, turning back on its shadow. +These shore birds fly off fast when disturbed, crying out, the +black-bellied plover with a sweet whistle of its own.</p> + +<p>Gentle rising and falling of the tide over ribs of sand; swirling +fogs; burning sun with spokes slanting down through clouds +over the rim of the world, letting in calm soft lights, green and +pink and pearly across sand and rivulets and pools, or cruelly +glittering diamonds over the water. Light and water and wings +flow in and flow past, the motion of ages, all actions being +synchronized, as the hovering and diving of the tern is synchronized +with the fish it catches, part of the indefinite combinations +of things in a universe of motion. Over these waters +and receptive sands life crawls or flies, dives, halts, stops, and +starts, wildly, with quick hearts beating, or scarcely a heart at +all, blind, or vibrant with sight, probing with accuracy and speed +or merely moving at random.</p> + +<p>They are all elements in a great exchange—this ardor and +play of one instant in time, an instant that is equal in importance +to all others. I stand here at the apex of one day. Here +out of a thousand years is another advent, another chance for +action, another use for sight, in the beautiful agreement of all +contrary, separate, and divided things.</p> + +<p>I remember one evening at Morris Island in the latter part +of August, with the day beginning to fall and the surf’s dull +roar sounding from the sands of the great beach, a beach behind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> +me, still beyond me, still in a sense not walked. The tide started +to ebb, flicking lightly against the shore, lapsing with the +evening as if the sea had an easy courtesy of its own, and with +the smoky sunset low on the western sky, the waters moved out +over gray sands. There was a perfect symmetry to the evening. +Terns flew over, light, airy, floating with a swallow’s beat, but +deep, sure, and strong. Little sanderlings and red-backed sandpipers, +half-seen in the dusk, ran through reflections in the shallow +waters at the edge of the tide, part of its coolness and flow, +the little waves in banked rows rippling. The birds tripped +forward and dipped to the mirrored salmon, copper and crystal +in these waters, in a communication. The terns trilled harshly +and sometimes their bodies trembled as they beat up against +the light wind and changed position. A single herring gull stood +still on a hummock at the tide’s edge like an Indian in a ritualistic +acceptance of darkness coming on. The order of change +and constancy began to take light’s fire and warmth and its +colors away, in the graduated motion of the sky, along with all +flying elements like the terns, like thought, and the unimagined +combinations of being. The wavelets edged out. The sanderlings +started to flit off and disappear. Finally there was no turning back +the authority of night.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp94" id="i000_endpaper" style="max-width: 268.8125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i000_endpaper.jpg" alt="Map of Cape Cod"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="transnote"> +<p class="centerbold"><b>Transcriber’s Notes</b></p> + + +<p>Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.</p> + +<p>Illustrations have been moved nearer to the text to which they refer.</p> + +<p>Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. +</p> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75895 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75895-h/images/cover.jpg b/75895-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5d6ad7 --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75895-h/images/i000_endpaper.jpg b/75895-h/images/i000_endpaper.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d70655e --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/i000_endpaper.jpg diff --git a/75895-h/images/i000_frontis.jpg b/75895-h/images/i000_frontis.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7fd504 --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/i000_frontis.jpg diff --git a/75895-h/images/i012.png b/75895-h/images/i012.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d83fbd5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/i012.png diff --git a/75895-h/images/i036.png b/75895-h/images/i036.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fe939c --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/i036.png diff --git a/75895-h/images/i084.png b/75895-h/images/i084.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..92ec6f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/i084.png diff --git a/75895-h/images/i108.png b/75895-h/images/i108.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb32d0a --- /dev/null +++ b/75895-h/images/i108.png |
