I took the dogs out after dawn this morning, and as we walked along the shore I saw a disturbance in the water. Ripples circled out, and a small wave pushed out away from the shore. Something large was moving under the water, powerful, forcing water to well upward.
Whatever was disturbing the water moved erratically out from shore toward a flock of waterfowl wintering on the bay. I regularly see ruddy ducks, scoter, goldeneye, and bufflehead among the mallards and coot. Some of the waterfowl took off now, in a panic.
I watched the disturbed water and finally the brown head popped above the surface then went quickly down again–a seal fishing for breakfast. I wondered what it must be like down there, murky cold water, powerful strokes after its prey, snatching the panicking slipperiness in its jaws.
I’m not getting in that water, even for salmon.
Ernie is still on a leash as his ligament heals, keeping pace with me. We take turns leading, developing our own nonverbal communication, speaking to each other as the leash gets taut or slackens. “C’mon, Ernie,” I give him a gentle tug to keep pace. He braces himself in silent remonstrance sometimes and I relent as he stops to sniff or pen his own reports for the canine chronicle, dog news for the next hound to come along after us. Edie is old enough that she knows the boundaries and runs free, joyous figure eights and sprints, then circling back to charge us with her own high-bounding exuberance.
A great blue heron rises off a single post out in the water, huge wings expanding like a cape then slow wingbeats lifting it away; year-round we get both great blue and night herons. A noisy flock of Canada Geese V overhead honking a warning to each other about the dogs. This winter for a while we found meadowlarks regularly during our morning walks.
I see a couple more seals out on the abandoned piers, tails lifted in the air, I suppose to warm themselves, stretching before the dive in after their breakfasts. We reach the USS Hornet museum and turn back as the gray dawn grows lighter. I reprimand Ernie for licking dew off the grass as we walk, he stops licking, waits for me to look away, then does it again. Edie zigzags a course on front of us, nose to the ground, sniffing for jackrabbits.
They’re happy dogs, and it’s a joy watching them. I look at the flocks of waterfowl, settling down again after the disturbance, and love having this much nature so close to home.
The city of Alameda is going to develop this abandoned stretch of shore into a walking path sometime soon. I suppose they’ll tear away the broken and abandoned piers and scare off the seals. It all doesn’t need much development as far as I can see, but you know how it is with progress. I just hope they don’t wreck it for us too much.
It’s heartbreaking how they develop every square foot of saleable waterside property, till the charm that drew people in to begin with no longer exists. It’s happening here on the Oregon Coast.
I enjoyed the images of your morning.
Thanks for stopping by, rabbit. Yes, it’s become quite the brouhaha here. My little stretch of shore is the least of it–the developer’s smell big money with the naval air station itself. I almost linked to one of the stories in the local paper, but the point of this post was tranquility more than politics.
I’ve always enjoyed Oregon when we visit–have gone to Klamath Falls to see the bald eagles several times–amazing to see so many at once in one place!
I hope your area is able to keep much of its natural beauty.
That was breathtaking, Ben, and thank goodness it wasn’t fiction or you might have had to pay off that foreshadowing of the dark force in the water with something more immediate and physical than the threatened “development.” I was afraid for Ernie and Edie. Anyway, here’s hoping the bond measure fails.
You’ve a gift for the fictive, David–you’re exactly right about the pay off.
I’m afraid our pay off is going to be pavement or sidewalks and converting a few fields of weeds and jackrabbits into lawns and fences, probably with signs proscribing what we can do.