It starts when you’re introduced to the idea of the sandbar. It’s just one of those tantalizing things that you have to walk across. Because it’s not always there. Now you see it, now you don’t. So, of course, in the beginning, you’re very careful. You only walk across at safe times when the tide is very low. The bridge appears like a beacon, and you walk safely over to the point. That’s not so hard.
But it’s the idea of an appearing, disappearing, reappearing
bridge that seems to make people want to cut things closer to the edge. They “forget” to check the tide charts, but
there’s still plenty of solid ground, so what’s the problem? Although . . . is the tide coming in or going
out? That could make a big difference. Sometimes the untrained eye isn’t sure.
There’s a calling from the point, and it gets stronger and
stronger as the sandbar gets smaller and smaller. It calls to you, like a hypnotic siren out at
sea. What could it hurt to walk quickly
across and back? You promise yourself
you won’t be gone long. You just want to
go to the edge of the point and look out into the bay. Is that so terrible?
 |
| The sandbar makes a temporary appearance. |
The sandbar is a wily creature who lives on the beach. He spends his days searching for people to
tempt into crossing over to the point.
Many hear his call and many respond, and often everything turns out just
fine. In fact, everything is stunningly
beautiful. But he knows differently,
this creature does. He entices
people. He tempts them with rewards of
wonderful things if they just cross over, just a little further. He knows the tides, and he knows the secret
astronomical tides (when the moon is full or new) even better. Those are his favorite tides. And he waits.
Through sun and rain, summer and winter.
He waits.
I saw a group of people go across a sandbar on one fine and
sunny day. It was a larger sandbar than
this one. They stayed out on a temporary
island longer than they should have. I
kept trying to wave to them from the shore with exaggerated movements to get
them to come back because I knew what was going to happen, but I was far away
and I don’t know if they saw me. They
were tourists.
Eventually, they realized that they were quickly becoming surrounded
by the ocean. They joined arms across, shoulder to
shoulder, in a long line and began to walk, keeping the line together and
helping anyone who stumbled or panicked.
I watched them nervously from a safe distance. There were no lifeguards; many places in Maine don’t have them at
all.
The ocean began to rush in furiously. At first they were knee high in water, but in
a matter of minutes they were thigh high.
In the blink of an eye, the water was up to their waists. By then, I could hear them on the wind as
they cheerfully encouraged one another and held on for dear life. They kept walking toward the land. The water reached their chests, and I could
feel real fear coming from them.
But they crossed over an invisible threshold, and even
though the water rushed in ever faster and ever more furious, they had crossed
a point where the depth began to decrease for them. They had reached the land. The real
land. Not the tempestuous, murderous,
beautiful, alluring, desirable, cruel sandbar.
Another ten minutes, and the story might have ended very
differently. It was a lesson well
learned for them and for me.
Yet still, I take my chances. I do things I shouldn’t. Today there was no problem. Last winter in this same spot, I made it back
without a moment to spare. It was
snowing, well below freezing, and I had forgotten my cellphone, as usual. I slipped and fell on an icy rock, but managed to limp back. The sandbar lost that time, but barely. I got lucky.
Tempting. Tricky,
very tricky.
