Tuesday, June 26, 2012

In Pursuit of Clams; or, the Last Waterman

Clamming in the Marsh

Digging up a Quahog


                Captain Jimmy is an old waterman who gave up the long hot days of clamming and crabbing to shuttle people in search of a "local experience" back and forth along the bay marshes.  A good natured fellow with leathery skin and an obscenely thick southern accent, Jimmy seems to jump right out of the pages of some old Bay novel.  No doubt filled with knowledge of navigating and working the surrounding waters, he seems to reserve a polite contempt for us outsiders.  In regard to clamming, he could fill these pages much more than I, but to quote him would be an exercise in futility.  My group and I are still trying to figure out what the hell he was saying about the anchor.
                He has coasted us close to a barren, muddy flat that rises clear out of the water and after a brief misunderstanding about the best location and method of dropping anchor, we descend from the boat and begin making our way across the mudflat.  As I wander aimlessly across the flat, I am struck by the amount of life surrounding me.  Littered across the entire flat are tiny whelks about the size of marbles.  Upon closer inspection I find that many of them are slowly moving about, dragging themselves along by tiny translucent tubes.  Along the rim of the flat where the water begins to deepen I see schools of tiny fish darting here and there attempting to outmaneuver the seagulls searching for lunch.  More than once I begin digging into a small hole expecting my first clam, only to pull out a black, tubular worm of some kind.
                I eventually did find my first clam, ten altogether, and although I felt proud of my success my greater enjoyment came from exploring all the alien life I found on the mudflat that day.  Curtis Badger reflected in Salt Tide that “Clamming is a good exercise in observing life on a mudflat, because it encourages you to slow down, bend over, and pay attention.”  I’ve spent every summer since I was a young boy all over the Chesapeake, and I must have passed by dozens, if not hundreds, of mudflats like this one.  But I would have never been able to fully appreciate the tiny little ecosystem it supported until I was able to “slow down, bend over, and pay attention.”  
I glance back in the direction of the boat occasionally to see Captain Jimmy casually leaning against the railing of the boat, waiting patiently with hands clasped in front of him.  I wonder if he sees what we see when he looks across the mudflat.  Surely, he knows every inch of the bay and every creature within it, but I wonder if he still views it with the same wonder we have discovered.  Perhaps that is why locals like him often have a slightly patronizing view of tourists and visitors.  Nothing unkind, as I’m sure his strong sense of southern decency and manners would temper his opinions.  But more like the way a parent tolerates a child’s clumsy wonder and excitement at discovering something new.
                A flash of lightening in the distance snaps me out of my reverie, and I see Jimmy moving about the boat.  By the time my group and I make our way back, Captain Jimmy is already prepared to get underway, but not before he makes sure we don’t track the dark mud onto his deck.  He recognizes the impending storm which is about to overtake us, but doesn’t seem to be as apprehensive as we are.  I suppose that is what makes him a waterman.

By Jim Mason

I Was There

Clamming in the Marsh

Egrets wading in the marsh


At night, the water makes no pretense of color. Its ripples are neither blue nor green, but dark and deep. Yet within the liquid darkness, a pale blue light rises up and floats away. It is joined by another that creeps from the shadows of the dock. My girlfriend reaches into the water and allows it to flicker up at her touch. I dip my hands too. I gaze with disbelief at the sparks that fly from my fingertips. Somewhere underwater, a comb jelly drinks in these fragments of light. Then it signals its coming with its own light. I cup my palms, hoping to catch it. The drifting luminescent vessels swim just out of my reach, but the water is warm. The touch of the tide is gentle. We came not just to see, but to listen, to smell, and to feel the wilderness about us. Running our hands through the water in the cool night breeze, these wonders communicate with us in a special way. Not by sight or sound, but by the full experience we build a relationship with the place that we take with us along our way.
Of course, I had seen this dock before. In fact, I could rattle off the names of every body of water we must cross between the Marine Science Consortium on the mainland and Chincoteague Island. I had ridden past these marshes on my bike so many times, and more than once I had stopped to take in the sights. However, not until earlier this afternoon had I truly come out to meet the wetlands.
The much-anticipated clamming trip brought my classmates and I out into the marshes by boat. We snaked through waterways that I had previously identified from the bridges. From Mosquito Creek to Cockle Creek, we floated between islands of cord-grass. Our ride took us from warm sun into the shade of light clouds that leaked delicate drops of rain on us as we anchored near the shallow mud. With socks on our feet, we slid into the muck to begin our search.
Recounting my trip, I boast to my girlfriend about the clams I had caught. However, I find myself speaking so much more passionately about the feel of the mud beneath my feet than the three trophies I had carried home. Indeed, what greater boast could Curtis Badger make of his clamming experience in Salt Tide? “But I enjoy, most of all, the very fact that I am here, wading on a mud flat with my trousers rolled, enjoying the cold of spring tides, the healthy suck of mud.” I myself remember the slurp of the wet ground as I tore out the blackened mud beneath the surface. I recall the sticky puddle that perched on the roof of my sock as I took each step. Try as I might, I can barely convey to Sarah the exhilaration of feeling the hard clamshell against my probing toes. It mattered very little that I actually claimed it. So I caught a few clams, Jim had caught ten! Frankly, I enjoyed, most of all, the very fact that I was there.
We sit awhile longer at the dock, Sarah and I. We continue to watch the comb jellies glow as they come and go. These living bubbles looked so lifeless out in the mud this afternoon, but are now coming to life. Something they have taken in transforms them into these magical lanterns in the sea. Just as they draw in the glowing plankton to set themselves aglitter, we draw in our experiences and we come to life. We draw in not just sights or sounds, but our experiences. We place their brilliance in our own spheres to brighten our way as we sail along.
When we get lost along the way, when we wonder, and when we wander, we can let our journey illumine our spirits. We can search for meaning in the marsh, beneath the woods, or at the edge of the sea. We can respond to the specific invitation that meaning offers each of us. Finally, when like the comb jellies we must follow the tide, we can carry the experience with us, pulsing with our own light. Sarah and I watch these shining orbs and we listen to those lapping waves, but we know we didn’t merely see or hear them. We were there.
By Jarrett Voight

Searching for Clams



On Mosquito Creek

As our group headed out in search of clams, none of us were quite sure what we were looking for. Captain Jimmy, the expert, had to stay back at the boat to ensure we were not going to be stranded out in the marsh; he gave us a few instructions, though I don’t think anybody could completely understand his thick accent. We knew we had to look for tiny holes in the mud, but that not all the holes meant clams. After about an hour we spotted lightning and were able to walk back to the boat, the same length, in maybe five minutes. I wondered how many clams we were missing on our hurried way back. Then I thought to myself: I don’t think I have walked that slow or noticed as much in that short amount of space.
            As I slowly made my way across the mud I could feel my socked feet squish and sink into the soft ground. Frustratingly seeking out the clams and their signs, I searched for holes. It seemed as though I could find anything but the clam I searched for. I found a cute little long claw hermit crab, several types of worms, and a specimen that was related to the jellyfish, one that could not sting, even if it had been alive. Finally, I came upon a hole that looked different than the others. This one was surrounded by black debris, like a miniature composite volcano. I stuck my toes inside, squishing around in the soft black, oxygen deprived, mud. With my toes, I dug a few inches down and struck a hard surface, a clam! I found one! I rejoiced as I pried it out of nesting spot. After staring at the mud for so long I agree with Curtis J. Badger when he states in Salt Tide that “Clamming is a good exercise in observing life on a mud flat, because it encourages you to slow down, bend over, and pay attention” (10).  Badger is correct: if it weren’t for the incentive to find clams, I do not think I would have noticed half of the life forms I did while strolling along in the mud. What is also enjoyable about clamming is that while you certainly use your eyes, your other senses, especially touch, are imperative. When a person is clamming it is required that they are aware of their feet. They need to think about where they are stepping and what they are stepping on. This process is not typical in everyday life because people generally disregard all that their feet walk over unless it makes them to trip, or causes pain.
            Clamming teaches people the importance of slowing down and noticing. People should take the lesson clamming has to teach and learn to slow down and notice the little things on an everyday basis not simply when on the hunt. Who knows what marvelous things people could find if they simply take the time to slow down and look.

By Megan Kelsall

Celebration on the Water



Instantly I am drawn to the water.  It is cool and relieving from the unforgiving sun.  Swimming around, I see crabs scurrying in the shallow water and schools of fish with plan of direction.  In the water I feel in my own element.  It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.  I am able to let go of the world on land and immerse myself in a world undefined. 
In the essay, "Waterman’s World" Tom Horton writes, “What we long ago found unthinkable on land; we continue to celebrate on the water” (188).  The water opens the door for the imagination.    The water helps to celebrate something “unthinkable on land.”  For the land is more defined in nature: if there is sunlight it will brighten an area.  But sunlight in the water projects the surface of the water onto the ocean bottom.  With my friend’s goggles, I can see the rhythm of the sun’s rays on the ocean floor.  After gazing at the floor, I swim as hard as I can through the shallow water.  Catching my breath, I lay on my back floating in the water.  My ears are submerged and I can hear my rapid heartbeat in the water.  Listening to my heartbeat “on land” was “unthinkable,” but out in the water I am able to “celebrate” my life as it pulses in the water. It almost creates a sonar effect, establishing my own personal beat to the ocean. 
I flip over and look out towards the horizon. There are about five World War II ships sunk in the bay.  I did not really take the time to gaze at them before because the excitement of the water consumed me.  Dr. Laurie Cella informs me that those ships are responsible for the beach: without them erosion would eat away at the sandy shoreline, leaving it inadequate for recreation.  This idea of using ships to protect a habitat is “unthinkable on land,” and thanks to these concrete giants, we are able to “celebrate on the water.”  The retired guardians of the beach, schools of fish, the rays of sunshine on the ocean bottom, and my rapid heartbeat are all what allows me to call the water my element.  The free floating, care free, and openness of the sea reflects the way I think of life.  The water is like a childhood friend because regardless of the time spent apart, once reunited it’s like I never left.

By Andy Dixon 

Man vs. Crab

Kiptopeke and Barrier Islands Center

Stalking the Crab, Chesapeake Bay

The Catch

                I stalked silently through the shallow inlet in search of my prey, every shadow on the sea floor a potential victim.  Each of my steps were carefully placed so as not to disturb the sand and allow my quarry a chance to take flight.  Coming across a rather large patch of brine, I leaned in to examine it for signs of the blue crab I sought to capture.  About to move on, the dark patch of growth shifted with the current and betrayed a flicker of movement underneath.  My prize, seeming to sense my scrutiny, scuttled to reposition himself underneath his clever camouflage.  The thrill of the hunt pounded through my veins as I prepared to pounce and claim my elusive prize.  Patiently, I waited for his next move, lulling him into a false sense of security which would be his ultimate undoing.  He moved slightly into the open, peering out to see if the coast was clear.  Adrenaline surged through my veins and I shifted my feet, betraying my position.  A flurry of sand marked his rapid retreat into the deeper water ahead of me as I gave chase. But the water clouded to the point that pursuit would be futile.  “Well played, sir.” I concede to my victorious opponent, “Well played, indeed.”
                My failure forced me to re-examine my methods, and I scrabbled back to my gear on the warm morning sand.  In order to find the blue crab I must meet him on his own terms; I must hunt him down in his back yard.  Quickly I donned my mask and snorkel and returned to the water.  Upon reaching his last known location I gently lowered my body into the cool bay waters and pushed myself forward, deeper into the abyss.  Mild strokes of my arms allowed me to glide along, a leviathan among the lesser species of the aquatic underworld.  The sea floor appeared crystal clear through my goggles, shells and seaweed standing out in stark contrast to the smooth velvet sand.  The fortunate crabs chances of survival were diminishing, his rapid side-scuttling locomotion and hard protective shell no match for my highly evolved cognitive functions and opposable thumbs.  Today I was going to earn my place at the top of the food chain.
                After several minutes my increased perception allowed me to observe my quarry once again.  Half buried in sand and deceptively still, he sat frozen a few yards away.  ‘Clever,’ I thought, ‘he has adapted his methods as well.’  Although he was no match for me, a grudging respect began to emerge within me.  But there is no room for admiration on the hunt, no moment to be lost for sympathy.  He was mine and the time was now.  Coasting almost directly above him he still refused to betray his position, believing his ruse had succeeded.  Gently I allowed my hands to sink to within striking distance, drawing up to the final strike.  But as if to mimic my intentions, the crab slowly raised his to tiny claws towards me.  With amazing speed he attacked, snapping his claws around my exposed fingers.  I jerked my hands away and rolled to my left, attempting to parry his blows.  This caused my snorkel to become submerged and I take on a lungful of the salty water we battled in.  I pulled myself upright and exclaimed with surprise, but it wasn’t over yet.  My adversary boldly seized the initiative and struck at my feet, sending me stumbling back in a panicked retreat.  This retreat quickly turned into a rout as I scrambled to gain the safety of the shore.  Once there within the relative safety of dry land, I glared at the glossy surface of the sea and vowed to return. I would have my vengeance yet.
                As I paced back and forth along the beach I struggled to comprehend the crab’s success during our bouts.  This was no mere crustacean fluttering aimlessly about the bay; it was in fact a finely tuned aquatic survivor.  Regardless of my direction of approach he seemed to be aware of my presence before I was of his.  And his speed, my god his speed!  I could nearly step on him and in the blink of an eye he was more than ten yards away.  William Warner’s Beautiful Swimmers accurately quoted long time crabber Howard of Chrisfield’s Maryland Crabmeat Company, who said, ‘Only thing I know is that they can crawl, swim, and bite like hell.’  Warner’s text is full of impressive facts, such as the blue crab's ability to see ‘almost three hundred-and-sixty-degree vision' and being ‘superbly designed for speed’.  All these apparent facts forced me to admit my hubris and accept that I could not engage this beast again on my own.  This denizen of the deep would only be conquered with the help of an expert.
                With this in mind, I quickly made my way to a park ranger, who had set up a small stand on the beach with a collection of artifacts depicting the broad range of life along the shore.  While I would normally inspect each and every item with care, my attention was focused solely on the long handled net leaning against the equipment behind her.  I quickly explained my plight and she readily agreed to come to my aid.  Armed with my newly acquired net and a unique knowledge of my prey’s preferred nesting area, I confidently waded back into the warm water of the bay.  In a matter of mere minutes I spied another carefully hidden specimen and, careful not to let over-confidence get the better of me once again, I gently lowered the net towards to bottom.  Spooked, the crab began to take flight, but not quick enough.  With a desperate lunge I scooped my net in front of its path and heaved it from the water.  As I brought it back to eye level I inspected my net. 
                Victory!  Nestled in the confines of the green mesh was a beautifully colored Bell Crab, a close cousin to the famed Atlantic Blue.  I pumped my legs in the direction of the shore, calling out to anyone within earshot, heralding my triumph.  Emperors have never felt such glorious pride!  I spent the next several minutes strolling about the shore, sharing my prisoner with all who cared to gaze upon the mottled blues and reds of her spectacular form.  Upon closer inspection I observed a spongy orange mass on its underside, indicating that this was a female bearing millions of tiny eggs nearly ready to be hatched and released into the bosom of the sea.  This caused me to reflect on the tenacious effort of the crab to evade my attempts at capture. With only one out of a million of her tiny eggs predicted to survive and grow to full maturity, it was clear that these hardy little creatures were adapted to propagate under the harshest circumstances.  With a keen sense of respect and admiration, I gently lowered this good mother into the inviting water and released her.  She simply hovered before me, as if in comradely salute, before casually returning to her home at the bottom of the deep. 
                “Farewell, worthy adversary,” I thought to myself, “farewell and Godspeed.”
By Jim Mason

Spirits' Invitation



Without venturing too far out, I dip my body into the water. Testing the buoyancy of my own figure, I wobble for a minute before reaching down and grabbing the floor of the bay. I guess we’re not all meant to swim. Looking up, I see that the others in our group all seem to commune with the water in their own way. Jim has declared war on the small crabs at the floor of the bay, while Andy dips below the surface and pushes forward with a few strong strokes. Behind me, Megan patrols the beach, not really walking out into water any deeper than her ankles. The children chase the fish around the shallows while their father returns with a hermit crab. Each of our relationships with the sea will be as diverse as we are from one another. Do we determine that relationship or does the wilderness? I suppose this is the conversation Tom Horton mentions in Bay Country when he considers us “engaged in an almost constant dialogue with the landscape around us.” Indeed, there is an invitation there that speaks to all of us in different ways, anticipating how we can and will respond with our own nature.
Slipping further into the water, I wonder: where does that invitation take me? Whoops! I wobble a little and then hold myself still. Scuffing my knuckles along the solid underwater sand does not really count as swimming. Then, a shout hurtles through the air back to the shore. I watch as Jim forcefully tangles with the scuttling creatures of the bay floor. They evade his hand and reach for his feet with their claws. Undeterred, he still pushes ahead with his enterprise like the watermen of old. Tom Horton lamented the loss of the ventures of those rough men. They did not just go out into the bay; they struggled with and against it. I should wonder why Tom Horton’s “spirits of place” would invite some to do battle, but the watermen represent a way of life that shaped the region of the Chesapeake Bay. For some length of time, those familiar waters became a frontier. Just as I see in Jim’s battle with the crabs the little bit of fight we all have within us, so also did the watermen’s exploits symbolize something hardy about the spirit of mankind.
I stand up and pace further out, keeping an eye on the clear water for any crabs that may be offended by my trespassing. A splash pulls my attention from my feet as Andy dips into the water again. His face submerges itself as he moves through the ripples on the bay. I lay myself horizontally at the surface of the water again, but I dare not allow my face to sink below water level. Some join their lives to the sea. Rather than contending with one another, the spirits of man and sea are much more at harmony. Now, rather than splashing, I pull my hands in. Then reaching forward, I spread out my arms. My legs struggle to get into position as I just barely stay afloat. I try to emulate the breast stroke I’ve seen performed so many times. Of course, the residents of Hog Island further south did not remain afloat for long before their village had been reclaimed by the sea. Yet, while they still made their life in the barrier islands, they swam! They lived a simpler way of life, fishing and clamming right there between marshy wetlands and the fingertips of the Atlantic. The community lived in harmony with one another. They celebrated their life in a way that very few can nowadays. If only my breast stroke harmonized with the water the way their living had connected with the sea. Perhaps then, I could move forward not by inches but by yards like Andy. I try for a little longer, gliding shakily through the water. I continue to try until feeling in my arms becomes taut, and my body starts to sink.
I suppose it is the fate of any unaccustomed swimmer to grow tired and return shoreward. I go back to comb the shore with Megan and Dr. Matthew. If there are those who fight the sea, and those who swim through the sea, there must also be those that observe it. The plight of the Hog Islanders brought tears to my eyes, but in the end the nature reclaimed its own. This part of the wilderness is now preserved for us to view without interference. Though I have not lived with the water like the islanders, I can still come to view the water like the many tourists on Assateague and like Megan on the shore. From beside the ocean on those protected shores, I can still hear its immense voice whisper to my soul. The spirit of the ocean can invite us to look upon it from afar, and oh! the wonders we can see even from land. How lovely in my eyes are the fringes! How I love to watch the egrets patrol the marshy wetlands between the shore and the mainland. Yet even there, the sun and the bugs drive me out before I can remain there for long.
As I look up, I find myself neither out in the deep, nor left on the shore, but treading somewhere in between. I am neither hunter nor swimmer; nor would I remain on the beach. I listen for the voice of the ocean and I follow it. I wander out and I wander back. My feet might carry me by those salt marshes one moment. The next moment, my heart carries me back into the stories of those people that came before us. The spirit of this place makes of me a transient. I shall not make my living on the frontier as part of the struggle between man and nature. Nor can I take up residence in the sea, living in complete harmony. Yet I also cannot distance myself. I follow the roaring sea, the majestic trees, and the whispering breeze. I follow so that at the end of my journey I may meet the one whose voice roars with the ocean and trickles through the trees. Then I shall be where the invitation has called me.

By Jarrett Voight

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Shell of Existence

Beach at Wallops Island
I stand at the edge of the ocean as the cool water surrounds my feet. The sand slips away beneath them, grain by grain, as the sea reclaims the water. There are only a few people around me, those in with whom I came, but nobody dares to make a sound. Nobody wants to be the person to break the silence. It’s as if the sea is whispering to each of us, and we all have no choice but to listen. Eventually we walk down to see what life forms we can see with a little bit of searching. Although I set out to search for life, it was not until the end of the walk that I realized: it was not the life of others I was searching for; it was my own.
            As I scanned the beach for signs of a creature, all I could see was the remains of the once living. Scattered along the beach were the shells of the simple scallops with their rigid symmetry. Among them were the clamshells with discolored lines, which tell the clams age. Every now and then there was the cute little moon snail with its smooth spiral.  I was surprised to have stumbled upon a spiraling whelk shell, and I held it up to my ear to see if the ocean would speak to me. As if this shell was my private communication line to the sea. As I looked at these shells, I pondered how rugged these shells that seem so fragile must be to survive years in the harsh environment of the ocean. I thought about Rachel Carson, in The Edge of the Sea, when she states, “The animals were mortal but the shells they built have endured.” These shells that were scattered must have tumbled about in the force of the ocean, yet they still stayed in one piece. She compares the animal to its shell stating that the animal was “mortal,” but the shell has endured. She illustrates that the shells the animals make to protect themselves will long outlive the animals that create it.
            As I pick a few shells up for further inspection, sorting through ones I wish to keep and wish to give back to ocean, I wonder what is my shell? What will I create that will endure long after I am deceased? Will I create anything as strong as a shell that can provide protection for its creator and will last years after? Will I be lucky enough to be a whelk shell? Will people hold the reminiscence of my life up to their ear to hear my final words? Will they listen? Or will they simply hear? Or will I be an oyster that people only glance at, identify, and then move on? Only time will tell.
By Megan Kelsall

Silent Shore


Excursion to Wallops Island

Surf at Wallops Island

When I think of the shore, my mind instinctively envisions a solitary beach with no one else but me for miles.  I’ve been to my share of resort beaches with hotels soaring into the sky mere feet from the water, but this is the place of tourists and commercial business.  The smooth, white sand has been picked clean of anything resembling nature and the only things to be scavenged are the abandoned water bottles and candy wrappers left by beachgoers.  Instead, let me wander for hours with no man-made structures in site, the only laughter to be heard coming from the seagulls fighting the wind above me.  As we emerged from the half hidden trail onto Wallops beach, we were given a choice of directions to walk.  We could go south towards the artificial sea wall and towering navy buildings, or north along the lazy lines of shells towards the protected nesting area of Piping Plovers. I’ve often considered the absence of Man to be essential to the conservation of nature, and within that ideal lies a privilege for the few willing to seek it.  Wanting to rid myself of the oppression inherent in development and society, I chose north.  As Megan and I walked we skirted the tide line, occasionally stopping to examine some exotic shell or the spongy tangle of green algae washed upon the shore.  We talked shortly at intervals, mostly about something we had seen or wish we would see, but mostly we wandered in silence, letting the lapping waves be our soundtrack to this beautiful place.
                Before we ventured out, our guide had told us of a nesting area for the plovers which had been cordoned off by signs.  We were not to disturb this area, and upon seeing these signs were to turn around and head back.  Just as the shoreline turned out into a sandy point, beyond which I greatly wished to explore, we came upon the signs.  The area was back away from the water, and Megan had suggested we could walk along the surf without disturbing the site.  As we stood there our guide caught up to us, and we had asked him if it was alright to proceed.   He told us that technically we shouldn’t, but if we wanted to he would not stop us.  After a moments consideration, and against my desire to push on, we turned back.
                While I have never seen a piping plover, or simply did not distinguish it from others, I felt a force act upon me in that moment.  I could have very well skirted the nesting area without doing any real damage but something inside me made me hesitate. In Tom Horton’s "Spirits of Places," in Bay Country, he says, ‘Sometimes I think the spirits of place seize on certain sympathetic people among us to fight the battles against change the land by itself cannot manage.’   I briefly envisioned a small nest of hatchlings surrounded by sand completely untouched by human hands, and the struggle of a mother to raise her young in that place.  That vision filled me with a sense of contentment rarely felt by me these days.  I cannot honestly call this ‘the battle against change’, but I feel justified in saying that my actions allowed that particular battle to be waged successfully.
                While our actions that day did not greatly advance the plover species beyond their endangered status, it did fulfill what I believe to be our inherent responsibility to the species around us.  While conservation efforts are certainly worthy of our best efforts, it will not be some great cause that will bring balance back to nature and man.  It will only come when all of us accept our small roles as temporary stewards as we interact with nature.  Millions of small acts of decency such as this will ensure the survival of all species destined to do so, and bring about a conscious awareness that will forever protect the resources we so greatly enjoy.  And while the bulldozers edge us closer to a concrete paved future, I am confident the ‘spirits of this place’ will continue to flourish within the solitary existence of this protected isle.
By Jim Mason

Memories of the Waves


A variety of shells washed up along the rim of shore, Wallops Island


Listen, from the sandy edge of this secluded barrier island. What can you hear? There is something familiar and something new about the crashing fall of every wave. One after another, they tumble past one another. Each one is anxious to speak their piece. Yet once they reach me, they cycle back. I hear only a constant battering; the ocean speaks a language too old for me to understand. I listen for the music of its voice as I watch each successive wave pile onto the beach. To my amazement, I notice that the sea has left its own fingerprints in the sand. What at first seemed like a barren flat hides its own intricate pattern of memories. Impulsively, my feet carry me down across these flats searching for the clues they’ve hidden. To walk across this soft beach is to pace through memories older than comprehension and mysteries beyond solution.
Many before me have looked down on sands similar and yet never truly the same as these. One such observer, Rachel Carson, recorded her own glimpse of ocean’s story in The Edge of the Sea. Of these memories, she wrote, “On all these shores there are echoes of past and future: of the flow of time, obliterating yet containing all that has gone before”. With her words in mind, I land my foot clumsily into several sharp fragments of the past. The surf stirs these broken tombs of old clams around my ankles. True to Carson’s word, the time for these creatures had passed and their graceful shells now wash away obliterated. Just as one cannot read a story from a single word, these playthings of the water offer me no clues to the story behind these echoes. I shall leave this mystery in the possession of the sea. My feet growing sore from their sharp edges, I step into shallower water.
I travel onward and upward. Tiny holes riddle the wet sands just outside the waves. If I stop to gaze into these holes, I see nothing but the darkness of the space in between. I pass them by. Here, I come to an area where the borders of the waves are clearly defined by lightly colored ribbons of sand, snaking in and out of each other. I follow these wavy lines, perceiving in each space between, the echoing boast of one among many stampeding waves. At one moment, the surf creeps close enough to me that I may observe as each one draws their line for the future with the sand that they carried. Every wave’s print comes from the sea. And when the mark is erased, its memory is entrusted back to the sea. Here, a little more of the story is revealed to me.
One more wave tugs at my foot. I crouch down to listen to what it has to say, but it runs away from me. A rainbow swirls in its place. The colors separate into tiny chips that burrow themselves between my toes. I watch the water bring them to life. This is “that fleeting instant” Carson describes, “when the water of a receding wave flows seaward like a thin stream of liquid glass”. Tiny living strings wriggle through the water. As the wave departs, they rest in small, moist crevices. I wait for the wave to return, but the ocean will no longer come out to speak to me. Instead, it leaves me to study the message it had left behind at my feet. Looking down, I watch as each of these morsels—these tiny surf clams—struggle to disappear beneath the surface. After they had gone, it would seem, even to the famed Rachel Carson, it would seem “that one has seen nothing except in imagination”. The living patch of sand is once again a memory.
Perhaps I shall never truly understand the mysteries washed along the seashore. However, I have been offered a tiny glimpse of the life beneath the memory. How much more can I not see? My feet carry me down the beach again. The tide has abandoned these flats, but it shall be back. The ocean will return with old mysteries to make new memories. As I walk away, I leave behind life, death, tide, and time in the safe-keeping of this beach. Following Hawthorne’s advice from his own journey in "Footprints on the Sea-Shore", I shall “pass on, and leave it unexplained.”
By Jev Voight

Life of the Shore

Excursion to Wallops Island
The idea of going to Wallops Island was exciting because a special pass is required to visit this beach.  Going through security, seeing construction of a ship, and the various buildings for NASA, I was not sure what to expect.   Arriving at the beach, I understood how great of an opportunity this would be for our class.  The entire beach was open for us to meander around, and was a chance to have a day to call our own.  Feeling my imprints in the sand as I strolled along the beach, I was captivated by the various sea shells washed ashore. I wondered about their history, and how at this point in time I could see them settled next to my feet. 
Rachel Carson describes shore life in The Edge of the Sea. She writes, “All the life of the shore- the past and the present-by the very fact of its existence there.” (Pg.11) Picking up sea shells, I began analyzing them, feeling their existence “past” and “present.” These shells were mostly clams and oysters and had at one point been one with the ocean.  Now deceased, the only thing it has left is the shell of its former self, but it did not mask the beauty of them.  Some shells were evident of their “past” as they were chipped and weathered.  But no two shells on the beach that day could be identical, for each shell had its own unique features.  The “life of the shore” could not be defined by the amount of shells I collected, for every day brings a new set of shells.  Carson states, “No two successive days is the shore line precisely the same.” The shells I saw that day were the existence of the “past” and “present” of a day that would that would never be the same.  I knew that the shells of that day would wash away, but each day after would bring its new wealth of shells; each with its own originality. 
The weather showed a solemn feeling, not too sunny, not too cloudy.  It helped me to focus on the splashing of the waves against my legs, and the shells that bounced over my toes.  That day on the beach could never be “the same” and that’s what gives it a strong sensory image.  If we were to go there again it would never be “precisely the same”, but neither would tomorrow from the next day.  So the “life of the shore” slows down time, as we are able to look at the “past,”“present,” and enjoy its originality. 
By Andy Dixon

Nature, A Spectacle

Hiking Assateague Island

Yesterday our group took a walk through the marshes.  Along our hike, I noticed a couple of the giant trees along the path had fallen over, perhaps from old age or a storm.  New vegetation began wrap around it like a snake; the reality of the forest is so simple; it’s stunning compared to the amount of stresses in the human experience.  At another point in the hike, I remember seeing a bird’s tracks in some mud, and thinking at some point these tracks will be lost forever.  This mystery bird was just surviving day to day, and could care less about the mark they left in the mud. 
In Rachel Carson’s The Edge of the Sea, she describes her experience in nature as, “The spectacle of life in all varied manifestations as it has appeared, evolved, and sometimes died out…and where the spectacle of living creatures faced by the cosmic realities of their world is crystal clear.” (Pg. 7)  The bird that had left its tracks in the mud was not troubled about the meaning of their life because the “realities of their world is crystal clear.”  It is a world of survival that the bird is living, and is a reality often forgotten in this modern era.  If a tree falls over, new life will take over, and the “spectacle of life…appeared” before me as the nature of the forest “evolved, and sometimes died out.” 
The abundance of birds that gathered in the marsh helped to put all I had learned on the hike into perspective.  All of the birds formed a community, even though being quite different from one another.   The years of evolution, and progression produced the “cosmic realities of their world.”  Young birds were following their mother, others skimming the water for food, and in a flash they all took flight.  Looking at these birds fly away together was poetic because whether or not all of these birds would survive was not contemplated. Instead the flock of birds, the fallen tree, and the tracks in the mud represented the “spectacle of life” and how it “appeared, evolved” and would eventually die out. 
By Andy Dixon

To See For Ourselves

Hiking Assateague Island

It wasn’t long after our departure from the car that I wanted to run as fast as I could through the forest.  Clouds of mosquitoes, thick as smoke, enveloped us as we moved along the asphalt path.  To stop even for a moment to admire a particular plant or flower allowed the hovering insects to land on our exposed flesh and drain the life out of us.  Our store bought bug spray did little to deter the tiny monsters and our group was forced to resort to any manner of shuddering, spastic movements that gave us even a moment’s respite.  I myself spent most of the entire walk swinging my scarf about my neck like a cow switching flies as it grazed.
This walk through the woods made me wonder under what circumstances Thoreau took his walks to which he speaks so highly of.  He often spurns mankind for their intolerance of nature and insists, in what I’ve come to regard as an elitist attitude, that people should spend most of their time in a more natural state, deep within the forests.  However, I wonder if he has ever walked for miles in the baking sub-tropical heat along vast beds of stagnant water, covered in blood sucking insects.  I’m pretty sure even he retreated to the safety of his cabin more than once back on Walden’s pond.
                That’s not to say that my trek was entirely miserable. I saw several endangered fox squirrels, birds of all shapes and sizes, and quite possibly the largest heron I have ever laid my eyes on.  In Thoreau’s essay Walking, he represents nature as a two dimensional force, presenting itself to whatever introspective whims he is contemplating at the time. But when we experience nature, we experience it on nature’s terms, not our own.  When he states, ‘Now a days, almost all man’s improvements, so called, as the building of houses, and the cutting down of the forest, and of all large trees, simply deform the landscape, and make it more and more cheap,’ (Handout Pg. 2) he is implying that mankind as a whole augments the true order of nature to suit its own needs.  Yet, nowhere in his patronizing diatribe does he mention the harsher aspects of the forest.  Mother Nature is the epitome of balance, each wonderful adventure paired with a grueling trial.  On our walk I was able to partake of fresh raspberries, mindful of their surrounding thorns.  I was able to see many species of beautiful birds which were only there to feast on the millions of insects I was forced to wade through.  Thoreau manages to omit these facts from his accounts, and these ‘improvements’ of his are also ‘tame and cheap’.  Like all things in nature, you can only appreciate them in their entirety.
                Thoreau goes on further to say, ‘I walk out into nature such as the old prophets and poets Menu, Moses, Homer, Chaucer walked in. (Handout Pg. 3) Barring this inflated sense of ego, which I am quite sure at least Moses and Homer would have found amusing, he attempts to set himself up as the definitive path to truly experiencing nature.  He recommends daily four hour walks to avoid the ‘moral insensibility of [his] neighbors’. (Handout Pg. 1)  If he were alive today I would ask him who benefits more, a man who spends every day walking within the same twenty mile radius or the man who spends thirty minutes seeing the ocean for the first time.  The force of nature itself defies his line of reasoning simply by its existence. Were it truly meant to be view through one set of eyes, life would never have exploded into the multitude of forms I saw that day during my walk.  A coyote doesn’t view nature from a fox’s point of view, just as none of the people I saw that day viewed it quite as I did. Each of us is affected by nature in a unique way. 
                Furthermore, I cannot come to grips with Thoreau’s assertion that we must ‘walk like a camel’ (Handout Pg. 2) and look inside ourselves in contemplation.  To focus on oneself is to ignore the surrounding majesty of the woods.  Introspection and personal growth does not occur by curling up inside our own heads to ‘ruminate’ on our own thoughts.  It comes from interacting with the world around us and seeing how we fare against that world.  You don’t know how high you can climb by thinking about it at the base of a cliff; you know when you stand at the top of that cliff and look down on world below you.  You can’t tell how strong a rivers current is until you attempt to cross it.  I stated in the beginning that I wanted to run as fast as I could through the forest to avoid the mosquitoes.  Yet I endured them and by doing so I was able to come within inches of an endangered species, taste the sweet stem of a sassafras leaf, and marvel at the site of dozens of shore birds taking flight right in front of me.  None of this would have been possible if I had stayed tucked inside my own head.  By acknowledging the duel nature of the forest, and accepting it, I was able to become a part of it in a way Thoreau never could.
Works Cited
Thoreau, Henry. “Walking” Handout, June 2012
Jim Mason

Purposeful Walking

Hiking Assateague Island

Today my companions and I decided to attempt to connect with nature by taking a nice relaxing hike through the marsh, and in some of the area woods. As I walked through the protected land, I wished I could have wandered off the paved trail to see what I could find, but I knew I would not have the privilege to return if I had. From this path I could still enjoy the sounds of the birds, the soft breeze as it tickled my skin, the smell of the salty marsh. Suddenly, SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The sounds I heard as my companions and I attempted to fend off the vicious mosquitoes that desired to eat us. In some patches it seemed as if it was their goal to drain all us of our blood.
            Despite swatting at the bugs for most of our walk, there were a few places that offered us some relief. We came upon a body of water in the marsh, larger than a pond, but smaller than a lake. I am not sure of the reason, whether it was the open air, or if the birds had gotten to the mosquitoes before they got us, but the pesky bugs did not seem to be as violent here. Flocks of different birds were relaxing in this body of water. Most of them appeared to my untrained eye to be egrets, while others were ducks, yet scattered among them were several other types of birds I could not begin to identify. As I was absorbing the wildlife, something startled the birds and they all took flight for a brief period to settle a little down the way to safety.
 I could hear their wings beat in unison, as I wondered to myself: what does it feel like to fly. To simply be able to leave land behind and feel air beneath the wings I wish I had, but as they settled so did I. At this moment I could relate to Henry David Thoreau’s words, from his essay “Walking,” when he said “Of course, it is of no use to direct our steps to the woods, if they do not carry us thither. I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit…The thought of some work will run in my head, and I am not where my body is; I am out of my senses”(2). I realized that all the way here I had been allowing the mosquitoes to distract me from the peaceful bliss of nature. I then came to the conclusion that the mosquitoes represent the struggle to reach this meditative state. One must be able to repress all that nags at them, may it be a bug, work, or other worries. My mind had not yet caught up with my feet as we were walking through the marsh, but when the birds took flight that is when my spirit realized where it was. I then understood why Thoreau enjoyed his long walks, to be able to escape from society, and simply be in the present state of mind.
By Megan Kelsall

A Vagabond’s Pilgrimage


Marshes in the Wildlife Loop

           The marshes spread beyond me. They meandered into the distance like the mud plains of some distant continent. Strangely colored ibises coughed noisily as they waded amid the stolid egrets, the eager white herons, and the noisome gulls. Suddenly, one ibis takes to the air, followed by a flock and then the whole community soaring freely away. Here I can relax alone with the marsh, in peaceful solitude. Then again, the buzz of bikes behind me would argue otherwise. Now Jim, one of my fellow walkers, is calling back to me. Have I fallen behind? Then again, why shouldn’t I fall behind? Our path is taking us out of the marsh. There are fewer mosquitoes to flee and there’s just so much to see! I’ll still catch up if I only stop here and there. Surely if I’m just walking, then I’m not really walking.
Where am I going? How shall I walk? If I had been out in the wild with my kindred wanderer Sarah, we’d have stopped much more often and for even longer periods of time. We’d look upon a scene and try so hard to capture it. Now, looking past the shrubs at the tall grasses over the mud, I remember my camera. I think I’ll take a few pictures. After all, I can still see the group.  If I missed them, I could find them again, but what if I missed these wonders about me? There would be no difference between me and the “idlers and vagabonds” Thoreau remonstrates in his essay, Walking. Their journey never elevates their spirits as it should. “For every walk is a sort of crusade,” he preaches. Then to the holy land I shall go! A cathedral of pines stands open before me. Even a vagabond may enter! If I can but contemplate for a moment the miracles within, then I might know my walk will not have been idle.
Oh, how unique is the experience of pacing over the crisp orange carpet in halls of magnificent scaly pillars. The basilica’s high roof is crowned in deep evergreen. To move through the trees feels different than to give pause beneath them. Stopping does not merely give us rest. Nor does walking only move us.  As I walk with my gaze fixed onto some branch or some trunk, I see the tree come to life and move forward to meet me. See! Behind this pine tree, the whole forest circles around us! A chirp and a click catch my attention. Now I must stop. What are you hiding, pious tree? The other walkers have traveled around the bend; now it is just you and me. Earnestly I look for his secret. Then from around his shoulders, I find it! A nuthatch taps and scurries down to his knees. Now that my search has been rewarded, I must take leave. The others must surely wonder about foolish fallen-behind me.
Tiny wings whisper in my ears. Pilgrims greet me as they pass by. Some of the pines stand in prayerful silence; others raise their arms and dance before me. A choir of birds sings in the loft above their heads.  There is someone shuffling at their feet. I stop again and behold the snub-nosed fox squirrel. I stop and in stillness watch. I wait until she notices me. She sees that I am no mere passerby, and she turns to look at me. I withdraw my camera; I claim a few pictures and I take a few steps. She watches my advances as she finishes her chores. Then she hops away and I must once again be on my way. I take leave of the congregation and find the walkers waiting for me at the gate. Now that we leave, I wonder what lessons this pilgrimage holds for a vagabond like me.
I came out of the bog and into the trees. In watchfulness and stillness I spoke with the lord of the forest. In movement, I walked with him through his church of pines.  Had I not both moved and paused, I might not have met him. If my spirit idled at times, maybe I shall be forgiven. For if I can wonder as I wander, perhaps my next walk too might take me to the holy land!
By Jev Voight

The River Always Calls

Kayaking the Pocomoke River

The initial launch into the Pocomoke River was more of a test run for an uninitiated kayaker like myself. I made little headway as I splashed the paddle into the dark, brown water, learning that left meant right and vice versa. Much of what was around me was lost as I struggled not to impact against another craft or avoid scraping the overhanging trees that reached out from the nearby shore. Out in the open water I felt like a dog learning to swim for the first time, my movements clumsy and hurried.
                Once we coasted off the Pocomoke into a narrow waterway lined with flowering plants that seemed to grow right out of the murky water, we glided effortlessly as if it was the river guiding us and not the strokes of our paddles. At times, I refrained from my strokes, feeling like I was disturbing the serenity around me. My first jolt of excitement was seeing a river otter, or perhaps a beaver, swim right across the bow of our craft. I couldn’t be sure because only the top half of its grey, furry head barely protruded from the water. Whatever it was, the water was definitely it’s home because as I turned to shout my discovery to my companions, the creature had already made it to a nearby thicket of weeds and branches, disappearing from sight. I spent a few moments trying to catch another glimpse of it, but could only hear the occasional purr it made from deep within the grass. Gradually, the river slid me farther away, disappointed.
                As we made our way deeper into the marsh forest, I spotted small creeks cleverly disguised by the low hanging vegetation. I thought back to John Smith, in a canoe very similar to our kayak, pushing deeper into the forest and exploring every possible route through.  I could well understand why he called the area ‘the Isles of Limbo’ (Warner Pg. 7).  Even four hundred years after his exploration, the marshy waters feel neglected by man and left to the oblivion of nature.  However, where Smith was glad to leave and never to return, I felt (as I suspect my companions did) as if I could wander there forever. Every missed turn, every unexplored passage pulled at me, begging me to uncover whatever hidden pleasures it held.  In fact, the saddest part of my day was when I took the last left turn to see the docks we had launched from.  The artificial forms of boats and trucks cut across the far mouth of the river, and seemed to insult their surroundings.  Up until then, I had struggled to understand the point behind ‘The Lee Shore’, but at that moment I could identify with Bulkington and how “the land was scorching to his feet” (Mellville).  While I was in no danger of being “dashed upon the lee” I would have gladly faced whatever dangers the river and the forest held rather than return to the familiar safety of the shore. 
                Perhaps we all feel that way at one time or another.  After all, it was that same burning desire that caused us to trek across the vast Atlantic ocean for a world we knew nothing about.  And it called us west across the Great Plains to brave the steep Rocky Mountains until we came face to face with yet another endless rolling ocean.  But as a people we tend to rest comfortably on the past achievements of others until their deeds seem distant and impossible.  Is that who we have become?  Is that the extent of our adventurous spirit?  While many will never leave the confines of the safe space they have created for themselves, one only has to be quiet and listen to the call of the forest, the river, and the sea. Then the answer becomes as clear as the sky above me that day on the river.
The answer is no.
By Jim Mason

Lost Along the Way

 
River's Edge

“How do you know you’re not just chasing down the next adventure?” She had once asked me, “I’d think I’d be happy if I could just stop and smell the flowers along the way. That could be my adventure.”  Now the memory of my closest friend’s question is interrupted; here my kayaking partner and I are facing the wrong direction once again. Following his directions to reorient the boat, we turned away from the leaning branches and the shrubs of soft pink Swamp Roses. “Paddle to the left” so I paddle to the left. “Is the rudder straight?” it looks straight, but I am not completely sure. Look! A Prothonotary Warbler was hiding amongst those leaves. It’s rarely seen beyond this region, explains Grant, our guide. How fascinating! I can see it; I wish I could be closer. See, the other kayak is ahead of us; let’s paddle just a little bit harder.  They saw something, now we catch up and it is gone. I can still hear it I think, or else it is the tree coughing with a toddler’s light raspy breath. Although what I see does not disappoint me, for the shore sure is beautiful.  Now where was I?
What a frenzied, distracted mess rests in one’s mind! The more I’d search for some manner of meditation in the experience, the more it would elude me.  Perhaps it is only natural. After all, Hawthorne speaks in his Footprints on the Shore of so many different little encounters during his walk. Each one was in itself an adventure, a chance for meditation. Yet he also fought his distractions. Did not his memories accompany him as well? The sea invited him away from them, “for those ages find utterance in the sea’s unchanging voice and warn the listener to withdraw his interest from mortal vicissitudes, and let the infinite idea of eternity pervade his soul” (340).  Hawthorne’s narrator chose between the forest and the sea for his contemplation while here in the cypress swamp I enjoy a taste of both. Yet the channel I follow must soon bring me home.
We fall behind, so we try to pull ahead again, but each time the exhilaration of the race brings with it the reminder that there will be an end to the journey. This wooden box houses the wood ducks, and that tree has mistletoe growing in it. Ahead the docks come into view; it shall be over too soon. Yet as we go, I see by the shore that the water does not end at the trees, but travels further into a tantalizing unknown. I remember all of the turns we made, and all of the turns we could have made to take us farther away. How can I turn my interest toward eternity as Hawthorne’s sea demands? How can I reconcile my many conflicting thoughts with my present experiences? How can I see the flowers along the way as an adventure, when I have an unavoidable finish line before me?  Perhaps we sometimes need to let ourselves get lost. I do not mean we should remove that goal altogether. Rather we can make our goal not what we have planned, but that which we find. Our goal need not be where we must return but all of the places that we ended up.
Now the kayaks have been loaded up, but I am not ready to finish yet. Let me explore that side road, let me stop for a while here and there, let me make my adventure not my planned destination but of all the things I can find along the way. The sun is warm, but the wind is cool. Perhaps I shall wander toward the beach, I almost know the way. I shall not try to be back for dinner, because who knows what I will find!
By Jev Voight

Wildlife Lessons


Kayaking the Pocomoke River

I was sitting in a kayak, allowing the current to pull the little boat in whatever direction it chose at that moment in time. There was not a soul to be seen, until along the bank a little turtle quietly perched on a low hanging branch. It dropped to the water to safety when it too realized it was not alone. Scattered throughout the banks on the shore there are signs of wildlife, but only if one is observant enough to see it. The sounds of cars, and people passing, which ordinarily fill my ears, are replaced by the sounds of the wind and dragonflies as they buzz around me. At times such as these, when I am a solitary being, I am able to absorb the lessons which nature is trying to teach: the simpler answer is usually correct. Wildlife has much to teach the naïve human population, it is simply a matter of whether they are willing to stop and take the time to listen.
            Wildlife has a simplicity, which civilization appears to be destroying, however, if one escapes from society it is possible to bring those lessons back to society. In his essay, "Footprints on a Beach," Nathaniel Hawthorne states, “I made acquaintance with a flock of beach birds. These little citizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a stone’s throw along the strand, seeking, I suppose, for food upon its margin. Yet, with a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they drew a continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence” (335). The words, “a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate”, were particularly strong as he was discussing the birds and how they enjoyed simply gathering food. While mankind tends to stress over our daily routine, if we as a species were to stop and act as the birds, who “drew continual pleasure from their toil”, then relaxing and enjoying life would come much easier to us.
It always does me good to remove my self from society; it does not make a difference whether it is weeks, days, hours or minutes, the simple reminder that enjoying the present moment is imperative to a pleasurable existence. It is best to live as if one is in the wild, even if they presently are not. To live in the present moment and enjoy every meal eaten, and every safe slumber, that is bliss.

By Megan Kelsall

More than Just a Kayaking Trip

Kayaking the Pocomoke River

It had been awhile since I last went kayaking, but all of the memories of why I loved to do it hit me once we hit the open water.  Floating still out in the open water gave me the most satisfaction, and it is something I feel every time I kayak.  The feeling of being out there doesn’t overwhelm me, but rather it just gives me peace of mind having just the lake and me living in the moment. 
            “The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.” Describing the way water feels is difficult, but Chopin really hits the nail on the head with this quote.  This quote from the Awakening is used to help describe Edna, her feelings of the cultural divide and her struggle to find out who she away from all of the oppression.  The cultural divide is something I feel when I submerge my hand and disconnect from all of the stresses of life.  The water isn’t rough or intense; it just wraps itself around you, welcoming you. 
            All of the things going through one’s head can settle once they behold the awesome beauty of what always was and will hopefully always be.  By seeing the turtles and other animals going about their business, it simplifies life, and creates a deep appreciation of the intricacies of nature.  All of the trees swaying their branches to the wind gave a cool settling feeling as it helped to guide our kayaks through a world often forgotten.  The sight of the docks as we came around the last bend really spoiled the trip.  It was an inevitable end to our journey, and how I long to be back out there describing it in this reflection.  It’s a world that doesn’t scrutinize you, demand anything of you, or ask what tomorrow’s plans are; instead it asks you to take a break and enjoy living in that moment of time.    By Andy Dixon