Recently, I have been wondering about a lovely author who came to the store for a signing more than 10 years ago. Mary Parker Buckles lived on an island off one of the towns just south of Norwalk. So close to this mad world of insane traffic, strip malls and a population scrambling in pursuit of the dollar, she lived in a perfect little pocket of nature out on the water – and paid beautiful attention. A search leads me to Margins, her exquisite, now out-of-print book, otherwise there is not a sign of her on the cyber highway. Which seems perfect. I like to think she is still out there, so close but very much away from it all. I fantasize a bit about having that be my life. Especially after yesterday’s amazing afternoon of kayaking.
Clear skies, a slight breeze and the incoming tide pushed us along with the occasional heave. As we paddled towards the islands, schools of tiny fish broke the surface of the water. First they splashed to the right of us, then to the left, then further out – a teasing chorus line of glittering fairy-like-fish. As we came into a cove of the first island, a large egret stood beautifully white against the green marsh grass, posing elegantly before lifting off towards the trees.
Around the next bend, the water opens up and the Long Island is the only piece of land – hazy in the distance. From that expanse of water, we saw what looked like a moving head with something protruding out of the water. “What’s that?” we both said almost simultaneously and agreed it must be a snorkeler although there was no boat nearby and the swimmer was a bit far out. We paddled closer and saw —
Seeing deer is old-hat for some people but they don’t hang around my neighborhood much and I still thrill at the sight of one so close. And this one was swimming! From where? We followed — “not too close,” I said to Rob who, I think wanted to pet the creature. It scrambled out of the water and bolted for the trees.
Then we found this little spot and for a bit, pretended it was ours. And for as long as we lingered there, swimming, sunning on the bit of weathered wood tacked onto the jetty, waves sloshing beneath us — it was.