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Wednesday, December 1, 2010
No message in this bottle
Today the air's mild; the sea is calm and, down on the beach, silky. The  clouds are starting to thin, revealing patches of blue.And every now  and then the sun breaks through, always, it seems in about the same  place in the sky. Before descending the hill to the beach, I looked out  over the water and saw that a good many waterfowl were to be seen in the  southern part of the Inlet-- and discovered, when I reached for my  binoculars to take a closer look, that I'd forgotten to bring them.  (When I get this into my work, I get absent-minded. So no big surprise  there.) Since I knew I'd feel frustrated walking the south beach without  the binoculars, I walked north, instead, to Point Wilson, and did not  even try to guess the species of the few birds I happened to see in that  part of the Inlet (grebes, probably, since they were making a lot of  long dives). The beach was clean, the tide on its way out, and the only  debris littering the sand and stones (other than bits of seaweed and  clam shells) was a vodka bottle, still with its plastic cap on (no  letter inside, sorry to say, only a small bit of clear fluid). Up at the  Point, although the wind didn't pick up and the sea was still fairly  smooth, repeatedly a swell would rise into a good-sized wave, heaving  higher and higher until finally it began to curl (the kind that could be  surfed, but for the fact that it broke, each time, on the rocks, which  would make any attempt at surfing suicidal). When finally it broke on  the rocks, the dramatic collapse created thunder (as well as a lot of  foam, of course). It was a mesmerizing sight, especially because the  waves were breaking at a something like a ninety degree angle to the  beach. So I found a comfortable log and sat and watched until I got to  cold to sit quietly. But then the Point is a weird place, as I  discovered last year. The beach curves dramatically, it's at the mouth  of Admiralty Inlet, and its water is flowing into or out of the Strait  of Juan de Fuca (depending on whether the tides going out or in).  Lovely.

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