Spring ’Long Shore

“Where the sand forever
Takes the unchanging passion of the sea.”

These are mosaics of a vanished beach. Changeless may be the sea but not the shore it touches. Every tide leaves its impress, scarcely noticeable on rocky coasts but where the Long Island shore points into the sunset its impetuous hands work wondrous alterations. . . . The sandy reaches are there but cedars, bayberries and dunes of old are no more. . . . Gone, too, the charm of isolation which lingered when nearly five miles of beach country cradled only the Life-saving Station and a few oystermen’s shacks.

Forty years ago! Sometimes the temptation awakes to revisit the place where love for both birds and sea was satisfied but murmurs of many changes sift into these Taconic Hills and their tenor tells me to suppress the longing to see it again. . . . Today hundreds of houses and tents freckle smooth areas of sand — all laid out in streets! No — far better to remember those dunes as they were, glinting in the sun or sleeping untamed beneath the moon. . . .

The eastern edge of these United States is a continent in the making. . . . Thirty-five years ago Rockaway inlet joined the bay nearly half a mile east of the present channel. . . . A square mile of new country in less than half a century is swift work for deliberate old Dame Nature. . . .

All the machinery for land-making is here: the barrier of reef-taking brunt of storms — washed away in one place to reappear in another but usually more remains than is swept off. . . . Then the bay, with intricate lacery of creeks and meadows and beyond the advancing mainland. 

Like all deserts the shore is a nomad. Lure of the white beach expanse never dims. . . . Its fascination is ever strong for along this narrow scroll — a few feet to a hundred yards wide, according to the whim of tides — who knows what he may find? Perhaps a sea dollar or bean from far Bahamas — dried, four-pointed, curved sacs of skater eggs or maybe a bit of Gulf-weed ’longside a packet of love letters stained with dye of the blue ribbon still intact around them. 

The strongest attraction of these sandy plains is their simplicity, their candid exposition. . . . Like the snow-covered woods or fields they offer their stories openly and altho he who runs may see little, the loiterer solves many riddles. . . . This is especially true in spring after winter gales have ceased and shifting surfaces are somewhat stabilized. 

The dunes withhold few secrets while covering many. . . . If we are there at the moment they reveal their most intimate side and what the sea has brought to rest at their feet. . . . Neither tide nor sand waits and if treasure comes abeach the seeker must be at hand for what is borne on the waves vanishes quickly within the shores yielding breast. 

No martinet in punctuality is the tide. The almanac may read an hour later every day but winds, seasons and storms change the tide into a brotherly vagrant for those who meet an engagement a little one side or the other. . . . A fellow failing makes us wondrous fond! 

“Down to the margin of the restless sea comes all humanity.” . . . Its shores and marshes give sanctuary, soon or late, to a large part of the avian wild life of the upland. 

For two days the wind blew northwest. It is well to feel its invigorating breath and watch its flaws change the azure sea to indigo, but in May it means danger to thousands of feathered lives making their northern traverse. . . . The ocean is covered with great patches of grass. . . . Last night's tide was spring housecleaning, reaching far inland beyond the winter floods, collecting the dead rushes and hauling them out to sea on the ebb. 

The glasses reveal every floating clump a life-saving raft! The off shore wind has beaten down the surf and the making tide sweeps the debris diagonally ’longshore. . . . Almost spent many tired forms are dropping on the sand. . . . Warblers predominate — Magnolia, Cape May, Yellow, Black-throated Blue and Nashville are conspicuous. . . . Clapper Rails, flying low over the surf or emerging dripping from it, rush for the dune grass shelter. . . . All day stragglers drifted in: some unable to negotiate the last few yards were rescued from the water, held until semi dried, then released. Conservation at its crest. . . . Many — too many — went west instead of north. . . . This bedraggled cluster of olive feathers a few beats ago was an Oven bird. . . . No more for him the hills of home with his mate snugged down in their covered grass house. . . . Some green nook will miss his impetuous ‘teacher-teacher-teacher-TEACHER!’ The doctrine that Nature is merciful to her children has found no echo in my heart. Many a time have I anathematized the heartless old Dame when placing beneath the earth remnants of little sprites who epitomized in life winged beauty and song. 

Spring — with its glamour of warm air, deep sky, romance and life — behind it all Azrael with his ever-ready sword. . . .

“Casualty obstructs the sun” . . .

The main swerves close to the Point. . . . One of the spar buoys is so near species which lit on its gently swaying tip could be distinguished without the binoculars’ aid. That striped black-and-white spear, marking the channel, was more than a mariner’s guide today. . . . Past these tired little forest fellows shot wisps of snipe in easy, incisive flight. . . . A bunch of Red-backed Sandpipers goes whirling by, banking so steeply it is marvelous they do not side-slip. . . . A flock of one hundred or more tiny ‘peeps’ lit nearby and commenced feeding at once, their sturdy bodies unwearied by the fifteen miles from Sandy Hook. . . . It is interesting to separate the half-webbed toe prints of Semipalmated from Least Sandpipers and estimate numbers in different bands. . . . A long drawn-out plaintive “pee-er-wee” comes from seaward heralding an advancing line of splendid Black-bellied Plover. . . .

Why do not these fine birds cajole their handsome full brothers, the Golden Plover, into accompanying them on their northern trip? 

But for some mysterious reason Dominicus prefers making his journey from Argentine to Arctic Circle up the Mississippi Valley. 

Confiding little Ring-necks often trail along with their larger confreres — perhaps for protection, maybe for sociability's sake. . . . Several small flocks of Robin Snipe, their ruddy breasts aglint, rocket by with unslackened speed. 

An Aerial Limited – next stop probably Shinnecock or Montauk. The tide recedes — the highway broadens — becomes firm under foot. Even directly behind a retreating wave shoes leave slight imprint tho the sand is moist. The water is absorbed with an uncanny swiftness. At first glance the white coverlet seems smooth but look closely — every backwash shows irregular tiny hummocks which split the rushing water. . . . Jump quickly — they dig out of sight in a few seconds — and you will find the oblong shell of a mollusca, improperly called “sandbeetle.” . . . The true sandbeetles are further back, bleached white with brown markings — disciples of Euclid, forever tracing geometrical figures on sand pages. . . . Beach fleas are everywhere on the margin of the first dune, jumping spasmodically around our feet. 

Today the surf is scarcely two feet high, its note a subdued minor strain singularly attuned to the warm spring atmosphere. . . . Further recedes the ebb — wider grows the expanse of beach. At low water the wave break is one hundred yards from flood line with long, shallow, sandlocked ponds between. . . . Sets of water from innumerable holes reveal hiding places of a clam colony. . . . Along the edges of these ponds we find the delicate, interwoven tracery of three-toed prints where Sanderlings have been. At intervals a flock whisks along above the outer reef — dark winged atoms. . . . Suddenly, each one is a fleck of light against the blue as they shift the angle of flight and sunlight is reflected from their white breasts. . . . It is done with celerity and precision of a military maneuver but how is the command given? What means of communication enables them to execute the movement so perfectly? 

Just above high water mark is the first dune ridge . . . This is low and variable, changing its contour with every strong wind and tide. Thirty yards back a second, firmer and higher, curves into distant levels. . . . Beyond, rises the main rampart against Old Ocean’s advance. Here beach-grass shoots tough, strong blades upward. . . . Winds handle sand almost as easily as they do snow driving the sharp particles against these posts of vegetation. They pause behind these barriers in mounting triangles. The grass, striving for denied light, grows rapidly and soon the dune has risen many feet. Try to pull up one of these stalks. . . . It cannot be done. . . . Find a place where a gale has side-swept a bank — why it cannot be extricated becomes clear. . . . The strenuous contest with menacing sand has forced the grass to grow twelve feet or more!

No man-devised method of keeping this fluid ground in place has proved as effective as these pliant spears, their wind-harried tips bending in a graceful arc and tracing a fairy circle on the sand. 

Leaving the dazzling scimitar of Point for duller Bay reaches, the salt ocean tang gradually merges into perfume of blossoming bayberry bushes – a pungent aromatic odor — individual as the sturdy shrub from which it emanates. 

“. . . The sea lends large to the marsh . . .”

At intervals, insistent tides search their way between the low bay dunes. Refilling drained creeks and transforming thousands of acres to lakes does not content those restless fingers — forever reaching into new territory. . . . How variable and different from our inland streams that follow the same course for centuries. . . . Many shades of brown where patches of dead rushes still linger margin the new emerald meadows. 

These salt-water nourished areas are less colorful than luxuriant inland marshes but not less intriguing. Where a touch of alluvian soil is thinly spread we find fiddler crabs busily digging their tiny burrows, an array of sand marbles piled before each entrance. . . . A strange life — twenty hours ashore and four at sea — this proportion varies according to location of the home. . . . Here too we may see a few Willet their clear “will will willet” dominating other sounds as strongly as their contrasting black and white plumage allures the eye. If our sight is keen we will find some wing-torn remnants of the Monarch Butterfly host which tried to reach a warmer clime last Autumn. . . . Cedars are attractive in any location but their stubborn determination to survive in this meagre soil accentuates our admiration. . . . On dunes ten feet high grew the sturdiest trees, surrounding a small amphitheater, just east of the Life-Saving Station. The wind chisels were controlled by encircling ramparts and the contour remained constant for many years. . . . A perfect observation post and hours I spent there with pipe, pencil and pad while bird battalions passed in review. . . . One day during Spring of 1889 I recorded 86 different species without moving from that favored spot! Winged life converged there like sand in an hour-glass neck and afforded opportunity for study, of the little fellows, which has proved invaluable in their portrayal. 

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