Down By the Bay

I spent the past week in Stone Harbor, NJ. For those not familiar, Stone Harbor is a quaint, quiet shore town situated on an island that is approximately 3.5 blocks wide and 7 miles long. The same island is also home to another town, Avalon. The two towns have a sibling-like rivalry, but at the end of the day, people who know and love any part of Seven Mile Island share an understanding that reaches beyond the island itself. In the lead-up to my time away in this little pocket of the universe, the conversations about where I was going usually went one of two ways. Either the person had never heard of it, or they smiled delightedly and told me they love it there. Particularly in the off-season (before Memorial Day and after Labor Day), it’s a place that is peaceful and kind. It’s the type of beach town that chose to build bird sanctuaries and wildlife preservation areas rather than boardwalks and amusement park rides.

In the past seven days, I spent hours and hours seated on the back porch of my usual vacation rental (the 2nd floor of a gray-paneled A-frame cottage) looking out over the familiar bay. In the evenings, as I sat there in the darkening epilogue of sunset watching the shy stars start to emerge in the ever-deepening navy field above, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude. I spend a lot of time in that exact spot when I'm in Stone Harbor, watching the familiar bay.

When I was a kid, I always daydreamed about one day growing up and renting a beachfront house that looked right out over the ocean. And, honestly, today I could do just that. But I have grown to love the bay and all its secrets and gifts. I’ve become loyal to it. I still adore the ocean and the sand and the crashing surf, but there's a comfortable steadfastness and camaraderie to the bayside.

There is always so much to see and to notice amidst the relative stillness. This is where I first noticed the peculiar behaviors of all the different kinds of ocean birds I saw; herons and cormorants, egrets and seagulls, loons and crows, pipers and plovers, skimmers and turns, and so many others. A quartet of brown mallard ducks thoroughly intrigued me this year. Each morning and evening, I would see them making their rounds. I never did catch where their route started or ended, but I first noticed them because of how tightly in formation they swam, a perfect diamond nearly touching one another. And no matter which way they turned, they seemed to keep this formation. As they swam toward me I realized the lead duck was just slightly larger than the other three, the matriarch of the squad. They went around the bay, disappearing under docks every now and then, breaking away to find something to eat, and returning to their safe little diamond.

One afternoon as they happily nibbled at the algae growing on the dock, the matriarch swam around the corner, behind the boat and out of sight. It wasn't long before the other three noticed she had left and went searching for her. They followed roughly where she'd gone, just as she circled back under the dock and returned to where they had been happily nibbling. Around they went again, the matriarch slowly catching up to the three smaller companions. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were playing a game of hide-and-seek or tag. When they reunited, they went off again to continue their rounds once more. Perhaps the best moment of the week was on Friday, my final full day there, when I was floating in the bay looking at the sky and noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. I sat up to find myself face-to-face with one of the ducks. I looked around, and sure enough - there were the other three just a few breaths away. They swam up to and past me, without a care in the world. It was truly delightful!

Watching the people on the bay is equally fascinating. With the water temperature in the 70s the conditions have been perfect for bay activity. Paddleboarders, kayakers, swimmers, fishers, jet-skiers, and sailors all splashed happily in and around the bay. On Wednesday evening, a family rented paddleboards from a place about five docks down from me. I watched as they paddled about with various levels of skill and lots of happy chatter. There were calls across the water to parents and children, aunts and nephews, cousins and siblings. What was fascinating to me was that the instructor never tried to get anyone who chose to sit or kneel on their board to stand. That wasn't the goal. He met each of them exactly where they were. When one of the grown-ups (or perhaps teenagers) toppled over into the water the only result of what many might perceive as "failure" was joyous laughter. Failing facilitated wholesome joy. How beautiful is that?

After most of the family made their way back to the rental dock, a lone paddleboard darted out and diagonally across the bay toward the far corner. The instructor was booking it across the bay. At first I thought he was being show-offy ("that's how you do it"), but there was a sense of urgency to his paddling. I watched as he cleared the bay in under a minute, gliding up to a dock across from me. He hopped effortlessly from the board to the dock and disappeared past the side of a house. A moment later he returned and was paddling back across the bay, now with a little dog seated patiently at his feet. As he crossed back over, a boat of tourists returned from a sunset trip around the island and a chorus of “aww”s arose as he stopped to introduce the pup. He returned to the dock to the delighted family who spoiled the dog with attention and pets.

Spending what is now a total of 6 weeks (and counting) in this vacation rental over the past several years has shown me the meaning of tranquility. Because the bay does have a tranquilizing effect. It’s a sedative in the best possible way. It’s so quiet that I could hear (and identify) the sound of someone cooking scrambled eggs in a house nearby on Thursday morning. It’s so still that you can see each tiny ripple in the evening where the thousands of tiny silver fish pop to the surface to feast on bugs that emerge with dusk. It’s the kind of place where, upon hearing the clang of the bell signaling the raising of the draw bridge that sits at the head of the channel into our cozy little cove, people of all ages will stop what they’re doing - in their houses or on their boats, even the roofers across the way - to contentedly watch it rise and lower, slowly opening the gateway to the ocean.

So as I sat there on the porch in the chilly, breezy September nights, I couldn't help but smile as an acoustic guitar played from somewhere nearby, close enough to hear but not see. A lone cricket fiddled along to the music. The cars coming over the bridge provided a soft percussive note, and the occasional jumping fish syncopated the song unexpectedly. I looked out over the familiar, quiet bay as it played its ever-changing noisy night song, and I breathed in happiness. It would have been simply impossible to take such a gift for granted.