It was a darkening morning in Woods Hole, no rain, but a palpable thickening of the air and lowering barometer as I walked around. I ended up sitting next to Rachel Carson staring optimistically out to sea, notebook and ballpoint pen in hand, as if one more note would undo the devastation she chronicled. I guess the weather affected my mood, which was, to put it positively, reflective.
Woods Hole didn't feel like such a safe harbor, but why should it? Harbors may be refuges, but they are also the center of our comings and goings, our darings and dangers. I have crossed that hole maybe a thousand times and managed to miss the rocks ..... although I hung up late at night on a lobster pot line ..... and I marvel at the way the ferry backs out of its berth, stops short of the ledges every time, and steams positively to the Vineyard bearing its charges safely.
Carson's message was that same hope in the face of swirling eddies and perils seen and unseen. I took solace from her company, and from the very nice popover I was munching, and went on.