At Drift In Beach in Port Clyde, Maine, the tide goes out forever. There are many rock formations that create natural semi-private places to sun and picnic, read and soak in the brilliant warmth, suffused with a cool ocean breeze. Things take on a timeles quality. Children spin out adventures on the big rocks, excitedly search and and find crabs in the tidal pools; an elder man with his easel set up in his corner records his version of it all in color and form; a middle aged woman sitting in her small-to-the-ground beach chair, surrounded by the multicolored yarn flowing from her lap, weaves and plaits in a mesmerizing rhythm that mimics the sea.

It is warm enough to want to swim. After walking on hard packed sand for a few minutes, I reach the water. Now I walk on a sandy clear bottom for a long time before the water is up to my waist, when I can plunge into the clear, revitalizing liquid. Salty and buoyant and just cold enough to make me know I am alive, I swim and float and jump up and let myself fall backwards into the sparkling, welcoming sea. When I turn around and look back at the beach, I see the tall groupings of pine and fir trees that lay between the beach and the road, set against that vivid sky, a few scraggly deep pink sea roses, and their after-product, the tomato colored rose hips.

I found myself here a couple of days ago, on my day off, when I had thought that all beach and swimming days were over for this year. I felt like I was in a painting, it was so utterly lovely. I settled my chair near the water, beside a shelf of rock where I could arrange my towels, books, and lunch.

Behind me, about twenty feet away, were two women probably in their early forties, sitting in their lounge chairs, talking intimately. We were the onlyones in our little cove for now. I could not and did not want to hear what they were saying, but their lilting, confidential, deep yet easy voices conjured up two women in a welcomed and probably rare tete a tete. Here they fell into that wonderful space where many women meet with their best friends, sometimes with their sisters, people who they trust, people who know and have possibly shared their history, to talk about their lives, their inner lives, their deeper concerns and desires, their dreams and secrets and realities.

It reminded me of me and my sisters, and of me and my best friends, those who know me so well, and who see the world through a similar filter. It made me think, what profound bonds women can grow between them, and how much we need one another. How this can fill us up, nurture us, help us to feel heard and seen and understood, validated. It is soul food. It gives me the strength and the desire to go out into the world again, feeling both solid and open.

The cadence of these women’s conversation blended with the comings and goings of the diminutive waves, the methodical interlacings of the woman’s knitting, the children’s’ deeply absorbing play, the breezes gracing our cheeks. A great sense of well-being and joyous contentment flooded my being all afternoon.

Yesterday, after my hike up Mt. Battie, I decided to walk down the carriage road to the parking lot, and catch a ride back to town that way, rather than hike back down the somewhat intimidating trail. My feet, stuffed inside my hiking boots, were sore and pinched after the arduous hike. As I walked, I noticed a gentle stream beside the road, makings its way down the hill. It's murmurings and pleasant water noises soothed me. The sky was stellar and the sun warm and I was fantasizing about swimming in a cold pool of water. Finally, I got my towel out of my nap sack, placed it beside the stream and sat down. I untied my laces and pulled off my boots and socks, liberating my sore, hot feet. One by one, I slid them inside the slow-moving clear, cool water. It was the best part of my day.