"LOW TIDE"South Freeport, Maine
Oil on Canvas
12" x 12"
Oil on Canvas
12" x 12"
SOLD
Oh the stories about this place.
The lonely farmer -- who roars up on his tractor to boast of his “big barn,” complain how women run the minute they hear about the 10-year old son, meanwhile eyeballing me for dating potential. Lately, I am not too proud to duck for cover every time I hear the farm equipment coming.
The kayaker -- who insisted on putting in at low tide (Read: Bonehead). Quite the showman as he hefted the kayak and proudly strode to the water... then for the next 45 minutes dug and kicked and panted to get out beyond the mud flats, then gave up and dug and kicked and panted to get back to the parking area. (Its true, I have pictures). By then he was fuming -- black clouds forming overhead as he huffed back to the car with considerably less flair. And in that fateful moment the tide turned... water gushing generously into the inlet, which only further maddened the erstwhile studly who sped off in a cloud of dust, oblivious to my chuckling.
The kayaker -- who insisted on putting in at low tide (Read: Bonehead). Quite the showman as he hefted the kayak and proudly strode to the water... then for the next 45 minutes dug and kicked and panted to get out beyond the mud flats, then gave up and dug and kicked and panted to get back to the parking area. (Its true, I have pictures). By then he was fuming -- black clouds forming overhead as he huffed back to the car with considerably less flair. And in that fateful moment the tide turned... water gushing generously into the inlet, which only further maddened the erstwhile studly who sped off in a cloud of dust, oblivious to my chuckling.
The clammers -- who leave mysterious tracks in the flats that catch the sunlight like silken ribbons. Yet none who exit the mud look so elegant as that.
The swimmers -- who appear on sunny days at high tide and cannonball off the bridge. The air is filled with their sounds and it is pure summer glee at its best. Osprey hovering and hunting in the distance.
The fishermen -- who appear like ghosts just when the stripers are running, little fish flicker and jump to elude the big ones who chase them. Sun dappling on the water.
The campers -- who lumber along in towering land yachts to weigh anchor at Recompense Campground just beyond the bridge. A virtual paradise for summer visitors and the biting pests who are all to happy to serve them.
The fishermen -- who appear like ghosts just when the stripers are running, little fish flicker and jump to elude the big ones who chase them. Sun dappling on the water.
The campers -- who lumber along in towering land yachts to weigh anchor at Recompense Campground just beyond the bridge. A virtual paradise for summer visitors and the biting pests who are all to happy to serve them.
In the winter, I remember these times and feel warmed by them. Several winters ago the temperatures plummeted and held low for weeks. This entire outlet froze with over a foot of ice that rose and fell with the daily tides. At low tide, it sat on the flats and I roamed the edges and inlets, dressing warm against the wind and cold. Free form art sculptures formed by tidal ice activity dotted the shore. This was my moment to walk on water, and even though it was frozen, I felt like an adventurer.
Somehow, amidst the robust development trend of southern Maine this beautiful farmland remains open and relatively unscathed. We truly hope it remains so.
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