Lanes Cove

Lanes Cove is a gapped-tooth place. A small circle of sea water embraced by a massive granite seawall ramping upward from the tangles of rusted lobster traps and salt encrusted cordage on shore.

The seawall is two walls, really, with a chiseled-out space through which the tides run and the boats go lolling  out and in.

It's a formidable structure, but demure, in a way, considering the perpetually increasing strength of storms.

Lane's cove is a favorite jumping off place for swimmers, tiny and deep, but i ascend the granite with an intension to sit at the edge of this gap-toothed mouth, to dangle my feet over the roiling Atlantic, and watch for the dorsals of slow passing whales.

Whenever I think of water, thoughts move quickly to sailing - returning to harbor after racing. The inboard motor slowly ticking as we fold our carbon-infused sails on deck with one hand, drinking beer with the other. With six crew on the task, we could do both wordlessly, if not awkwardly. I remember idling around the final turn at the breakwater, just drifting, really, with a tiny nudge of purpose to get us to the dock.

How many thousands of stories are held by the oceans? How many hundreds of passages between Lanes cove and the sea? The enormity of whales and the greater enormity of storms making landfall - This tiny gap in the seawall where the tides slip through. It was built to last. Will it?

I maze the skiff through the marsh to a small mooring that is very sturdy, but not very legal. We hid the marker bouy just below the surface, scanning the rippling tide for the galvanized eye bolt in the top. Dipping my hand down through the brackishness, I feel for the chain, and grasp the slippery steel,  threading the needle that anchors us home.