I've lived on the ocean more summers than I haven't. I've walked a lot of Alaska beaches. It really is amazing how many rocks find themselves beaten into a heart shape. I've collected dozens, and have to keep checking my hoodie pockets to avoid ruining another washing machine.
August is a time for pups and fledglings. When the land otter pups pulled themselves onto the dock for the first time, I nearly forgot how their parents chased me last fall with hissing meanness. Soon enough the babies will grow into the Weasels Of Unusual Size, but for now their cuteness is breathtaking.
In the early '80s, while setnetting on the west side of Cook Inlet, I wrote a few letters and put them in bottles. I've always wondered where they went. Did anyone ever find them? I can't remember what I wrote. I guess they were status updates the old fashioned way. I'm always looking for a message posted by someone else on Oceanbook.
I spent time watching the neighborhood's newly fledged eaglets. There is an unusual nest with three parents and three babies. The young ones are mostly black, beaks and talons -- and they are really trying to get the hang of their landing gear and flight. From what I can tell, flying comes more easily than landing.
The new kingfisher chicks are all but grown up and fly brodies around each other.
"WHAT?!" is the only word the newest member of the raven family has learned. "WHAT?!" "WHAT?!"
I still miss the swallows that left the day their three chicks fledged.
The tide started to pull back toward the bay. The sun showed slick spots of stranded jellyfish. A few tiny orange crabs floated in spent ribbons of seaweed. Feathers dried in the tide line.
Bright red petals wrapped around the dock and dotted the beach. A neighbor picked one up. He thought they came from a wild rose bush around the corner.
Those are from a memorial, I told him.
"How do you know?" he asked.
I can tell. Something sacred had happened around those petals and I wanted them to stay with the ocean.
They did. A few more tides, more petals -- and then they were gone, forever part of the sea.
Down the beach, a card had washed up. It had two puffins on the front. Next to the lipstick impression of a kiss, the ink hadn't run on a handwritten message, dated July 31, 2015:
"Honey, Tho we weren't able to see puffins with our eyes you are now seeing Jesus with yours. I love you ever so. Your remaining Wife . . ."
And across the bottom, "Two are better than one. Eccl 4:9."
It joined the petals.
I love watching the humpback whales. Their massive displays are awe-inspiring. And I get a kick out of the pink salmon. They're hilarious. They jump spastically and fall on their sides -- to loosen their eggs, I'm told, but I think they're trying to imitate the humpbacks.
Early in the morning I may catch a glimpse of the blue heron chick. He's figuring life out, and doesn't have to work that hard to seem mysterious.
"Gerard" is the old man sea otter with the white face. He naps a lot.
My condolences to the writer for the loss of her husband. I see puffins often. Now whenever I see one I'll think of her trusting the ocean with words of love and kiss goodbye.
Shannyn Moore is a radio broadcaster.
The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email commentary(at)alaskadispatch.com