the day the world came out to play
Maybe it was the luck o’ the Irish. Maybe it was a glaring symptom of global warming. Or maybe, just maybe, our shepherd-beagle has her very own fairy dogmother, a magical being who, with the wave of her wand and the wag of her tail, conjured exactly what our heroine needed, exactly when she needed it.
March, as late-winter months go, has been unusually mild. In our corner of the country, that amounts to nothing worse than a few minor snowfalls, daytime skies that are often dark as dusk, and the kind of steady precipitation that makes it easy to forget that the entryway rug isn't actually made of mud. So, as we bundled up against the typically chilly, mid-twenties mornings on Thursday and Friday, we found the weekend weather forecast a little hard to swallow. But if it was true--oh! If it even came close to meteorologists' predictions...well, we knew exactly what we'd do. The only question was this: which would draw more people to the park, the first sublime Saturday of the year or a sunny St. Paddy's Sunday?
To fully grasp the unique brand of crazy that afflicts the general populace here (ourselves included), you must first understand the realities of Northwestern living. For eight to nine months out of the year, we exist as moles, becoming so accustomed to the lack of sunlight, when it finally comes, we squint into it, a bit painfully at first, then rejoice in it with a level of gusto many might reserve for a Mega Millions lottery win. We approach outdoor recreation as if every day were a holiday, a long-awaited vacation, and we radiate bliss like an offering to all the sun gods, a silent entreaty that the warmth and the light will return once more after the next prolonged rainy season. For it to return in the middle of March--and so robustly at that--must be pretty close to unprecedented.
During a time we'd ordinarily be shoveling snow or hiding from the pummeling of a brutal hailstorm, it reached a high of seventy on Saturday the 16th. At the beach, it was only a few degrees cooler than that. And, while calling these temperatures unseasonably warm for this time of year would be a gross understatement, few outside this region would consider readings of the low-to-mid-sixties to be swimming and sunbathing weather. In this county, however, that was a common consensus.
Silly us. As delighted as we were to be out on such a gorgeous day, we'd both worn sweaters and lightweight jackets in anticipation of the usual brisk and blustery ocean winds. It can feel cold by the sea, even in the middle of summer. But not on Saturday. We abandoned our coats before we'd even exited our vehicle. There was a light breeze, but it was far from chilly; it was pleasant, like the late-morning kiss of early June. We walked along water vibrantly tinted by the bluest sunlit sky. And all around us, throngs of park-goers relished the day either with unnecessary outerwear tied around their hips or already dressed in shorts, tank tops, sundresses, or swimwear.
Excepting the duration of the drive, which our pup still doesn't love, Maisie had been beaming since the moment I'd asked her if she wanted to go to the beach, and so the Fitzgerald & Bark Explorers' Club set out on our first great adventure of 2024. As we made our way along the boardwalk, we spotted the cause of gathering crowds. Until Saturday, Dennie and I had never heard of slacklining or its more perilous cousin, waterlining. For those of you who haven't either, think tightrope walking but with a rope that is more bouncy than tight. Later, in the park, we'd spy a young man teetering his way across a rope secured between two large trees, but here the slackline had been tethered to the rail of the dock's sloped walkway, stretched over the bay, then attached to the rail of the covered shelter well past the boardwalk's ninety-degree turn. Bungee-rope harness secured around his legs, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, and bared feet balancing on the wire, the man stepped one foot then another high above the water, occasionally bouncing on the line or performing amateur acrobatics for his rapt audience.
After a short while, the three of us moved on—things to do, see, and sniff.
Stashed in my insulated bag, there was a picnic lunch awaiting our hungry bellies and an oceanside bench calling our names. The view was stunning, not only as we dined looking down toward the water beneath us and across endless blue ripples before us, but everywhere we traveled. Colorful sailboats dotted the horizon in numbers we'd never witnessed. Kayakers, beachcombers, clammers, and swimmers enjoyed the water, some of them human, some of them canine, most of them in the fine company of local waterfowl.
On Saturday, it wasn't only seagulls soaring above or foraging along the shoreline. We spied cormorants fishing, their slender necks stretching deep beneath the water's surface, and black oystercatchers skimming the waves as they flew, often in pairs, their long, pointed, bright orange beaks seeking sustenance at lightning speeds. A flock of curious surf scoters paddled by, unconcerned by the large black dog swimming past in pursuit of a stick that had been thrown into the sea. And, for a birdwatching first, we spotted, gliding toward us, the stark black and white patterns of a Barrow’s goldeneye and his mottled female companion. There were seagulls too, of course, the sight and sound of which, I imagine, could never get old...even if one of them did make a midday meal of poor Lorenzo, a starfish I’d named because that’s just the sort of thing I do. Occupational hazard, I suppose.
The park buzzed with activity, a vivid and fascinating cross section of humanity. All kinds of people, spanning every generation, carried on, some independently, most within their own carefree groups. Readers and sunbathers and others lazed on blankets over nearly every surface of the lawn; they sprawled on the beach or in hammocks they'd hitched between trees or the barnacle-encrusted supports beneath the boardwalk, but there were also volleyball players, slackliners, climbers, runners, dog walkers (plus one unexpected cat walker), and hikers, not to mention those revelers that splashed in the shallows and the children that cavorted through the pirate-ship playground.
A trio of musicians had gathered on the beach. Their music and songs provided a gentle folksy soundtrack to our stay. A young woman softly plucked the stings of her own guitar amidst the relaxed company of her friends, and an older man took up residence on a bench near the coffee house and filled the air with a familiar tune played upon his melodica. It seemed as if the whole population of the world had experienced the same epiphany as us: that was the day to go out to the beach and play.
For Dennie, Maisie, and me, that meant an exhilarating four-hour trek, broken up with a few chatty respites upon usually well-shaded benches, first to eat, later to rest our feet or watch the sailboats out at sea, as well as the masses of people and dogs passing by. The dogs were of particular interest, not only to our pup, but to us as well. Unlike Maisie, however, Dennie and I did not exchange backside-sniffing calling cards with any of them or go nose to nose in friendly or curious greeting. From the moment of our dockside arrival to the backward crawl up our own driveway as Dennie endeavored not to run over our impatiently awaiting hen, it was a thoroughly splendid day, an enlivening experience for all three of us, one that accomplished exactly what we'd hoped. It boosted Maisie’s spirits, lifting her out of the wintertime doldrums and planting her firmly into the hopefulness, the happiness of an early and welcome spring.