Sanctuary

oasis 1

All my sanctuaries are green and empty of people or at the edge of the sea and deserted. Some are hard to get to and some are harder. Some have names like music – Aransas, Edisto, Hatteras, the South San Gabriel River. Some are just fun to say – Abernathy, Little Pine Garnet Mine. My newest has a clunky unfortunate name that sounds like machines, all metal and rust, like a steam engine pumping, like a Victorian shipwreck, iron hull screeching against the sea, some poor lost soul’s clumsy surname – Shackleford.

What a clumsy word for the hissing of shifting sand, the hush of the clamoring surf, all that motion and energy and peace and nothing to witness it but the gulls and wild ponies. Nothing comes here that doesn’t swim or fly or float.  A fluid island, creeping grain by grain along the coast like a beast made of sand and salt and bits of shell, feather, bone and fossil, where grass roots itself in dunes and sea birds feed and shelter but just for awhile. The next storm will shift it, divide it, cut a channel through or join it with another – barrier islands don’t stay individual.

poniesFor 400 years the shaggy ponies have survived an ocean away from Spain where they began – living on rainwater and occasional springs, swimming in salt channels, eating grass dry as chaff. The wild-eyed, scarred horses – exposed on a shifting pile of sand in the heat, bearing by turns the huge summer sun or the thrashing rain and shrieking  winds with nothing but a dune to huddle behind. Sometimes the ocean wells up and washes over everything. But they drop their foals in the spring and live another year.

The Gulf Stream passes near here, a river of tropic water surges by just miles offshore just before it swings away into the massive Atlantic. It flings Florida conches and queen’s helmets onto shore, the remains of milder latitudes carried here like a message I’m not equipped to understand. But I keep trying.  I’ll spend my life trying.

Someone here salts the sea with wine and whiskey bottles. Green seems the favorite. There’s surprisingly little plastic. Just colored glass to shatter in the surf and melt in the pounding like a sliver of frosted soap for some tourist like me to find like a treasure – beach glass. And I do. And I keep it. Because it’s a bit of the message but only a tiny part.

oasis 7All the questions I see in the stars at night, I can find here washed up on the sand, but written in shell and bone instead of ancient light. The math is the same, only more apparent – almost. So I pick up the bits and bring them home. A snail made this shell from calcium and carbon it soaked from the sea. Maybe a hermit crab used it too and discarded it again. Then the warm sea river carried it here to me. Maybe I’ll put it in my garden – pick it up occasionally when I can’t remember how the ocean sounds because I’m 200 miles away, imagine the snail and the crab and the stardust in its atoms. But mostly to call to mind the quiet thunder of the surf and horses’ hooves, the tick-tick-hiss of dunes creeping grain by grain, and the windchime rake of empty shells in the undertow. The sun and salt and winter wind sucking the water from my skin until it’s hard just to swallow.

I’ll keep doing this, every time I come here or any place like it. Combing the wrackline like a priest, looking for portents in the shell and flotsam – a hollow wing bone jutting from a dune, a fossilized scrap of turtle shell, fish vertebrae, a bit of coal from a steamship wreck, a Caribbean nut – the sea tells a story, writes it on the sand all over the world in a strange and wonderful language. I think I’ll spend my life walking the tideline every chance I get trying to decipher some small part of it.

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22 Comments

  1. Wow! That’s quite some writing there! Beautiful. And every time you mention those islands I get closer to going there. I’m missing out!

    Reply
    • Thanks, Barbara. I love writing about the coast. Ever been down to Port Aransas? It was my favorite coastal town when I lived in Texas, especially in the off season. You have to take a ferry to get to the northern tip of the island where Port A is. Then you can take the jetty boat from there to San Jose Island (also called St. Joe’s) which is uninhabited. That was my favorite island. Sometimes, sadly, there’s a lot of trash washed up (mostly fishing debris) but not always. And almost always interesting shells.

      Reply
      • Yes, I’ve been to Port Aransas. Can’t say I’m that fond of it, mainly because you’re allowed to park your car on the beach and lots of people do. There’s something terribly wrong about that. But I didn’t even know about San Jose. Must check it out.

  2. Sherrie

     /  December 4, 2012

    This is written so beautifully Tori. Thanks for taking me away from my office for a few minutes…I felt like I was there.

    Reply
  3. Wonderful! Ever consider becoming a travel writer (paid, I mean)? I’m sold!!

    Reply
    • Sounds like a dream job. As I understand it, writing for money is one part writing to about 3 parts marketing. Maybe one day I’ll try. Maybe one day soon. Thanks for the kudos!

      Reply
  4. Love, love that last photo – thanks for sharing:) Have a Great One!

    Reply
  5. Anita Gallagher

     /  December 4, 2012

    Beautifully done # 1 daughter. Felt like we were back on Shackleford Banks. Only wish we had time to investigate Beaufort.

    Reply
  6. cage3

     /  December 5, 2012

    Beautiful . . . Wonderful . . .

    Reply
  7. Simply blown away by the thoughts you’ve penned here. I felt like you were talking to my soul!

    Reply
  8. So very beautiful… From the beginning to the very end. The story of these horses has always fascinated me; and how you weave their stories with your sanctuary, the shells, the land… Just perfect.

    Reply
  9. “all that motion and energy and peace and nothing to witness it but the gulls and wild ponies.” – 🙂
    i like how you describe the ocean, the shore, the life on and around it… how lives survive the harshness and tides… this is a restful and well-written post. thanks, Tori 🙂 keep well…

    Reply
  10. So beautiful, Tori…such poetry in your words, and a connection that transcends the objects and makes them symbols of and for our lives…wonderful…truly.

    Reply
  11. That’s so beautifully written and combined with the wonderful pictures ..makes me long for the ocean 🙂 I share your feelings about the coast and the sea..

    Reply
  12. Pure poetry, Tori. And holy formatting, Batman! Your whole blog is different! (WordPress has forgotten to send emails about new postings again–poop-heads!–so I’m tardy.)

    Reply
  13. Wonderful flow of images, both written and captured….soul quenching

    Reply
  14. How beautiful it sounds and looks…

    Reply
  15. Absolutely extraordinary. I’m so glad you stopped by my blog, because now I have the chance to enter into yours. Your beach essay here somehow calls to mind Anne Lindbergh (and personally I can’t stand the beach!). Your line about the fluid island, creeping along grain by grain makes me think of Dutch artist Theo Jansen. If you don’t know about him, here’s my blog link that contains a video. I think you’ll enjoy it. I hope so —because I’ve enjoyed exploring your blog, and hope to explore still more, following in your (sandy?) footsteps: http://touch2touch.wordpress.com/2011/09/28/beach-creatures-do-the-locomotion/

    Reply
  16. A beautiful elegy; what writing! Feels so good! As many gems here as on the beach!

    Reply

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