MEGHAN Holloway
Author, Librarian, Researcher
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Low tide smells briny and crisp. I prefer these hours when the seas pulls back, when she folds back her reach and allows we mere mortals to glimpse the world beneath her. At the bridge where my breath was first stolen by this bay, there’s an island to the left, unreachable except by boat when the tide is in. I waited for a few hours today and when the sea began its gradual slide back, I pulled my Wellies from my trunk, donned them, and crossed the narrow, gravelly strip of shore that the low tide exposed and that led to the island. The island is small, huge boulders and scattered shells leading out of the water and up to its forested center. I scrambled over the rocks, waded through shallow tide pools, and slipped over seaweed beds, exploring this craggy outpost. Alone on that uninhabited island, clambering from shaley rock to rock, I let my imagination take off. I was an explorer on a quest through unchartered territory, where it was my duty, my privilege to fill in the yawning blankness on the parchment map. I was a castaway, lone and independent and relying on myself and the benevolence of a fickle sea for survival. I was a fisherman’s wife who knows that she will always be her husband’s second love, for his first will always be the water that eddies around my rubber boots. I was a keeper of the light, a beacon on a raging winter’s night, holding in my hands the means to guide others safely home…