Four hundred miles to the north hurricane Zeta churned out to sea.  In Beaufort, NC the remnants of Zeta’s outer wall ripped 50 mile per hour wind gusts of down the narrow channel of Taylor’s Creek.  Given the additional pull of a strong tidal current I wasn’t sure if it would be safe to paddle my kayak across the creek to the landing for the Carrot Island Boardwalk in the Rachel Carson Reserve, my destination for sit spot.

The reserve with its salt marshes, tidal flats, vast beds of sea grass, maritime shrub thickets, and herd of feral horses was one of my all-time favorite sit spot locations and I very much wanted to return. I first visited the reserve during my year of sit spots and witnessed the beauty of abundant life as the tide dropped, mud flats emerged and shorebirds flew into feed, revealing the nurturing cycle of tidal ebb and flow.  Three years ago I returned for another sit spot and watched pelicans plunge and terns tumble into shallowing tidal pools.

I suppose I have a kind of psychological connection, an attachment bond, to this reserve.  The stark beauty of the salt marshes, the reassuring, life sustaining rhythm of the tides, and the life story of Rachel Carson who loved, learned and wrote about this maritime world all touched my heart and offered deep encouragement.  This was an environment that had nourished and sustained her vision of humans feeling connected to and caring for the natural world. 

So Close, So Far                                Interval 1                    1:23 pm

With a scrape against the angled concrete of the boat ramp, I launched my kayak into the waves and wind leaving behind the boat ramp, a small town park with docks and benches, and a bustling marina.  With extra strong strokes and some sideways paddling I worked my way across the channel, reached the sandy landing, jumped out of the kayak, dragged it up well above the high tide line, and secured it to a piling with a bungee cord.  I had no desire to be stranded on the island in these conditions.

I headed across Carrot Island along a narrow sandy, muddy trail that ran next to and beneath the boardwalk. With each step I left behind the sounds of civilization that carried across the creek; the buzz of traffic, the bleating of back up horns, the whirring of the big cranes at the marina.  I slowly entered into a nature soundscape; wind whooshing through red cedar boughs, gulls crying, waves crashing on distant shorelines.

Alongside the trail the dark green boughs of the red cedars were covered with blueish seeds that when crushed between my fingers exuded a fresh, spicy, juniper fragrance. Higher up on the sand dunes stunted, shiny-leafed, live oaks leaned into the sea breeze.  Next to the trail stems of butter yellow goldenrod blooms and flowers of orange yellow seaside asters provided spots of bright color. Near my feet hundreds of tiny ghost crabs scuttled across the sand and seeking shelter amidst sea grass stems.

I sat down on a boat cushion on the sand beneath the observation deck out of the wind and felt the sun warm my face. In front of me stretched a panorama of shrinking tidal pools, jagged black oyster beds, shiny wet mud flats and vast patches of tan and olive-green sea cord grass.  Beyond the sea grass stretched a zone of open, wave flecked water edged far in the distance by the thin green line of Shackleford Banks, the slender barrier island that faced the North Atlantic Ocean.

I was probably no more than a quarter of a mile from civilization but felt like I was in a completely wild and natural area.  I thought how wise it had been to protect this area from development, to preserve it in its natural state.  What a fitting tribute to Rachel Carson.

A  Murmeration                                 Interval 2                    1:33 pm

Gazing around I began to feel like I was sitting in an aviary.  Three cormorants, sleek bodied, long billed, semi-submerged, swam smoothly in front of me.  Scattered around the tidal pools a half dozen great egrets stood on long black legs in the shallows, white plumage fluttering in the breeze, long spear like bills poised to strike. To my right on a vast mud flat a pair of black headed, orange billed oyster catchers poked slowly through upturned shells.

A trio of white and gray laughing gulls flapped lazily overhead calling kiiwa, kiiwaa.  A blue heron took off with a loud hoarse squawk, long wings flapping, long legs trailing.  Two willets flew by, flashing long dark and white patterned wings, calling a clear ringing kyaah yah, kyaah yah.

Over the far open water past the Middle Marshes I saw a long gray shape moving. Puzzled, I brought up my binoculars and focused on a vast flock of some type of sandpipers, too far away to identify.  I watched the flock grow in size, hundreds, no a thousand or more birds, a cloud of birds.

As I watched the sandpipers organized themselves into a long slender column that began to move over the water.  The front of the column dipped down, the rest followed.  The front rose up, the rest followed.  Soon the column undulated across the water like a long, thick, loose caterpillar, rising and falling, crawling through the air, a murmeration of sandpipers.

Spellbound I watched the rising and falling column of birds, the unspoken, fluid, ever changing, yet precise coordination of myriad wings and bodies through space and time. How did they manage it?  What was the purpose?  Gradually they faded from sight.

Wild                                        Interval 3                    1:43 pm

Binoculars still in hand I scanned the mud flats and the tidal pools to my left.  Suddenly my view was filled with a tawny brown. Pulling down my binoculars I saw a feral horse, a stallion, standing right in front of me about 30 yards away, head down, peacefully munching on sea grass. 

I was surprised and pleased.  Just last night I had overheard a woman at a restaurant saying how she had searched long and hard for a view of the wild horses but without success.  It was, I thought, a good reminder of the value of sitting still in nature, a reminder of how nature reveals herself to those who sit in stillness.

The horse, seemingly oblivious to my presence, continued to feed.  Surely he was aware, could smell and see me, but the opportunity to munch on a stand of thick grass available at low tide was most likely more important.  He edged slowly forward.  I studied his form; lustrous rich brown coat, sharp pointy ears up, long tail occasionally swishing back and forth.  He looked robust, healthy, and well fed.

As the horse edged slowly forward a white plumaged egret waded slowly towards him. Soon the two beings neared each other, each with its own form, its own movement, its own deliberate style and manner of feeding, sharing space, co-exiting, both part of a greater harmony.

Communities              Interval 4                    1:53 pm

Two terns flew by; white plumaged, a black eye patch, trim-bodied, slender streamlined wings. They flew lazily yet alertly scanning the tidal pool below.  Suddenly one folded its wings, dropped like a rock, splashed into the water and emerged with a small shiny fish that it quickly swallowed.  The second bird flapped a few feet further, dove down, but came up empty billed.  The terns took flight and resumed their hunting patrol over the tidal ponds.

Out in front of me on a mud flat three laughing gulls stood facing into the wind, as if arranged by an artist, the birds all choosing the angle of least resistance into the breeze.  They stood still perhaps waiting for a feeding opportunity.  There was something patient, timeless, soothing and peaceful about their posture.

More and more shorebirds flew in and landed on the big mudflat to my right. I was looking into the sun so it was hard to identify them.  Through my binoculars I saw brightly illuminated silhouettes; some small, some medium sized, some larger, some with short bills, some with longer bills; some bills up curved, some down curved.  Flocks of each kind flew in, landed and began to busily move around and feed on the fertile mud flats, sharing the space, each finding its own feeding niche.

The stallion browsing nearby let out a loud neeeigh.  A few minutes later as if in response to his call a line of horse emerged along the shoreline to my left.  I counted them, nine, different sizes, some smaller and younger, each with a different shade of brown and tan. They moved in a loose synchrony, maintaining proximity, feeding, walking along the shoreline, a community in motion, timeless, well-honed movement.

The Long Spears                               Interval 5                    2:03 pm

In front of me at water’s edge I tracked a little blue heron treading slowly through the shallow water, neck forward, head down, long strong bill poised to strike.  This was a handsome bird with striking slate blue plumage and not one I would see around my home in the Pocono Highlands of Pennsylvania.

It slashed its bill down and came up with a small, tan spiny looking fish, held it, dropped it, speared it again, dropped it again.  After a few more snatches and drops it finally left the spiny critter and moved forward.  Not every catch turns into a meal I thought.

The moment of absolute low tide arrived and I noticed that six egrets were now wading aggressively through the shallow tidal pool in front of me. One speared down and came up with a silvery wiggling fish.  A trio of gulls moved into to steal it but the egret held them off with a threatening wave of its bill.

The other egrets were now slashing the water their long sharp pointed yellow bills sometimes coming up with a fish, sometimes empty.  The egrets seemed to know, to feel, the moment of low tide, the time when the pool was at its shallowest, when the hunting was at its best.

The horses also seemed attuned to the moment of low tide.  A contingent began to walk through the shallow water out to a distant bed of sea cord grass; a bed that would be submerged at high tide but that was now exposed and ready to eat.  I watched them walk slowly and purposefully out to the bed of sea grass, one leading, the others following, on time, yet part of a timeless pattern.

Shimmering                                        Interval 6                    2:13 pm

The late October sun settled a little lower in the sky casting a shimmering light on the wavy wind-blown water, across the shiny black mudflats, and over the vast beds of sea grass.  Strands of thick white clouds floated across the deep blue sky. The stallion continued to feed contentedly nearby.

I noticed a tall, solitary shorebird walking through the grasses along the edge of the water in front of me. Binoculars up, focused in, I noted the field marks; brownish body, long down curved orange bill, long orange legs.  I thought white ibis but the brown body threw me.  I quickly checked my iBird Pro app and scanned the photos of the white ibis.  This was a juvenile with brown plumage.

I felt pleased.  An ibis is not a bird I would see at home so for me it was a bit of a rarity.  I also enjoyed figuring out that it was a juvenile.  And there was something about naming a bird, naming any part of nature.  It is like someone you know and then you learn their name and suddenly the relationship is deepened, the connection is enhanced. With the knowledge of its name in mind I watched the young ibis walk and feed, perfectly expressing the knowledge and unique adaptations of its species.

Lingering

My hour was up.  Several more horses joined the stallion and they were crowding in toward the observation deck.  It felt like time to leave. I gathered up my gear, walked back till I found a low spot on the boardwalk, climbed up, and then returned to the observation deck.

I wasn’t ready to leave but was past the need for systematic observation.  I just stood there taking in the scene; the rhythm of the tides, the feral horses, some near, some out feeding in the shallows, the calls of the gulls and willets, the whoosh of the wind through branches.  I felt the richness and abundance of life all around me.  In the distance I saw the black and white tower of the Cape Lookout lighthouse.

I lingered and lost track of time.  Even now as I write this sentence I feel a longing to return to the Rachel Carson Reserve.

This sit spot was conducted on October 30, 2020 in Beaufort, NC.  You can read about my first sit spot at the Reserve in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest available at Amazon and through Shanti Arts Publishing.