It is mid March. The days have begun to get longer, but the winds still carries a heavy chill. We are still months away from the warm evenings of summer that never end. Yet I enjoy this time of year, when the seacoast is quiet. I find solace in the hushed moments in the off season. You get an intimate experience that you are not able to attain in the summer. There no traffic, no tourists, and no noise. Any time I can find quiet, I am happy. This afternoon we only have a short amount of time though, so I quickly exit the car.
I love the mountains, but there is something refreshing about the ocean. Immediately that salt smell hit me, and I smile. I had been longing to get out here, yet hadn’t had the opportunity. Finally I decided to make the time. It was a dreary afternoon, but even these times have their beauty. The ocean is a steely gray, yet as it fans out I cannot take my eyes off of it. There is a harsh beauty that is unique to this rugged rock bound coast.
The cloud deck was high that afternoon and blocked what little sunlight was left. The remaining light was flat, yet there was a moment when some sun broke through. It cast lonely rays across the scene, before the clouds obscured them. The air was brisk, but refreshing, and the wind created a dull roar as we made our way over the jumbled beach rocks. Some were jagged pieces that have recently broken off and lay upon the beach waiting for the tide to come in and claim them. There was also rounded pieces of granite that show testament to many days of being throw around by restless tides. Growing up in New England, you become used to skittering over these rocky beaches. You tread lightly, just as a high-wire performer would.
We wander away, down the paths and into the woods. As we make our way down the path, I cannot hep but think of all the history that this point has seen. We pass the monument that pays homage to when our ancestors landed here. Further down the point lays the remnants of Fort Dearborn, a base during the Second World War. I am only sentence in the larger history that consists of this place.
I have always loved the Seacoast of New Hampshire. Whenever I make my way there, it always seems like time is suspended. It reminds me to slow down. We only stay a little while longer, until the final light fades from the sky. Yet when I turned away I am refreshed. But even before we pull out of the parking lot, I am longing to go back.