I lay awake listening. I lay there and tell myself, “don’t forget this. Write this down in your head now – then get it on paper later. Remember it this way so you can make the comparison later on. Good, now fall asleep – listen to it, hear it.”
I’m lying by myself in my tent – at the edge of the tree line, on a sand dune that’s settled somewhere back about the third tier from the shore, each one taller than the last. It’s the southern edge of a larger blowout that has “fallen away” from the main ridge line that rises another 100 feet above and behind me. I’m still probably 50 feet above the water.
From the little bluff that I have my Big Agnes Sunnyside III perched on, my senses kick into overdrive – I am very pleased with my choice for the evening. Directly above me, protecting me from the elements, are the branches from mature shade trees that consist of beech, maple, oak, cedar and pine; it makes me feel as though this land has never been touched, though I know it’s the result deforestation and the successful efforts to give it back. Directly out from those branches lies an open expanse of sky that proves so clear, the only interruption is water, sand, trees. Further below the sky lies an open coastline that, if a human eye could see it all, is 307 miles of fresh blue water from left to right, without interruption. As my eyes continue downward and back towards me, they fall upon clean golden sands, fresh dune grass, the occasional juniper bush, jack pines and Pitcher’s Thistle, a rare and protected species. This mixture continues for about 150 meters from the beach to the entrance of my tent. 180 degrees from top to bottom. I am pleased.
My good fortune is not realized to me until I prepare for bed that evening. As I crawl into my tent my eyes drink in one last look of the night. It’s midnight. The moon is high and more than three quarters but not quite full – it may as well be though. It casts a light on everything and shows me a violet world full of shadows, deceit, and beauty.
It is not a still night. There is a good blow coming out of the west, slightly northwest.
On the beach down below, five footers are crashing hard. The moon shows me the frothy mess as each mass crests, then falls. The night is playing tricks on me; there is not enough light to make out fine details – the water looks striped, like a strong brindle coated animal, but dark rich purple and light lavender. The stripes change with each second but remain constantly present.
Between the stripes and my tent sits an array of shapes and shadows moving with the wind; it is as though the wind this night is constantly in gust mode. In fact, the opposite of gust is happening. From time to time the wind lets up momentarily, therefore letting the small beach trees and bushes relax – springing back to their normal position, as though they are standing up. With each movement, my eyes dart to the source; each shadow lets its presence be known, as though it wants to come up and share my camp. I know better, but I let my senses play along. As someone who constantly catches myself talking to my garden and the individual plants as though they are friends, I welcomed these mysterious shadows. It sounds pretty silly now, but at the time I made it make sense to me.
Directly overhead, the opposite is happening. The canopy branches from the mature trees acting as my roof are being risen up from the wind, giving me a taller sky to view. When the “reverse gusts” happen, the branches relax and go to their normal position, closing my window. The moonlight entering my private corner alters with each adjustment.
I crawl into my tent. I zip closed the door but leave my vestibule secured open. It faces west, catching the fresh air. Wind rushes into my tent.
After a brief moment with the headlamp on, I am flat on my back, staring at nothing – the black ceiling of my tent. The wind has a bit of a chill to it; not enough to put on a t-shirt, or slide into my mummy bag; I unzip it, tuck my feet into the toe box and lay the rest on top of me.
Quickly a transition occurs with my senses and something peculiar happens. I gain super powers with my hearing. Mentioned above, I told myself to remember; I am hearing sounds in separation just as the poem does. The poem is one that I’ve often remembered for the effects starting around the 24th second: the ability to pull out each sound and hear it alone, mixed in a sea of other sound. For me, the poem is not about the words, but the ability to really hear what it is you’re listening to.
It starts with the waves crashing on the beach. It’s so loud, it’s all I can hear. Then I remember the section of beach I had walked on earlier where the waves wore away beach up to the dune and the waves were thudding directly into an 9 ft vertical wall of sand, like a storm slamming into a seawall. No longer did I hear the waves crashing, all I hear was the thudding, though faint.
A cricket starts singing right next to my tent, but it’s not a regular cricket – this one is softer, lower, more rhythmic and steady. It sounds nice, as though the cricket only wants me to hear it – not his other cricket friends. I focus on that for a moment, the sounds from the beach fade to nothing as though they are not even present.
As I listen to the serenade just outside of my tent, I hear a noise to the left. Like a rabbit twisting his ears, I quickly shift my focus to that side – I realize it is a branch from the sugar maple directly overhead, creating my canopy. It’s being tossed around from the wind. How did I miss that? It’s so loud now that I hear it.
A buzz. A mosquito. Is it inside my tent, or is it outside? Maybe it’s inside but just a gnat. Wait, it’s wrapping around the edge of the tent, past my head – whether gnat or mosquito, the wind must have pushed it into my vestibule and it is now stuck between my tent and rain fly. Wait, the wind – where are all the other sounds?
It is at this point it dawns on me that I am separating all the sounds. I go back and listen for the waves on the beach, and one by one I reintroduce each sound until I can hear all of them at the same time yet separately. “Don’t forget this. Write this down in your head now – then get it on paper later. Remember it this way so you can make the comparison later on. Good, now fall asleep – listen to it, hear it.”
I blink. Bright blue sky spilling into my tent. Somewhere, a blue jay sings about breakfast.
Pypeline.