How can the summer be half over?
Yesterday, a thing or two having gone to shit before my eyes, Kathryn and I decamped and headed north and east some thirty or so miles to Dartmouth, Massachusetts, on the advice of my editor at Penguin, for to see the beaches at Demerest Lloyd State Park. At the mouth of Buzzards Bay, west shore. Once we left I-195 and then made it through the barrier of strip malls, fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and so on and so forth, there were beautiful stretches of farmlands, houses and country stores dating back to the 1790s and older. Fields of blueberries, tomatoes, corn, skies filled worth raptors and sparrows. If I have to live in New England, the land southwest of Dartmouth would be a nice place to sit out the nine months of unpleasant weather. But I imagine one has to be quite wealthy to live out there. The trees were nice, a bit stunted by the aforementioned winds that worry always at the coasts here. On Horseneck Road, we paralleled the narrow, winding Paskamanset River, past Russell Mill Landing, where it eventually changes its name to Slocum (or Slocums) and becomes a tidal river, before entering the bay between Barneys Joy and Mishaum points. The tide was out, and there were sandbars divided by stretches of warm water no more than a few inches deep. We'd gone two or three hundred yards from shore, at least, before we reached the low breakers.
I swam out, but even after another hundred yards or so, the water was only about three and a half, maybe four feet deep. There was a stiff breeze, but not particularly cold. For New England, the water was pleasantly warm. Kathryn stayed back, and some drunkard motherfucker began harassing the very young female lifeguard. A mild kerfuffle ensued, with led to the lifeguard being replaced by a male colleague who, for reasons I still cannot fathom, called me back towards shore. Apparently, waist-deep water is hazardous to strong swimmers. No signs were posted anywhere about swimming out, and there were no buoys. It sort of ruined the day, proving one cannot escape the bullshit, not even in the sea.
We stayed until about five p.m., I think. We took some photos with Nemo, above and below the water. Look behind the cut.
Two hermit crabs and a tiny fish.
A lang-clawed hermit crab (Pagurus longicarpus). I love Nemo.
Under four inches of water.
View to the southwest.
My head in the distance, the Elizabeth Islands in the greater distance. And beyond the islands, Martha's Vineyard.
Standing, though far from shore. My back is to the camera. Nemo has a fine telephoto.
Spooky loved this snail.
Yesterday, I began reading Rebecca Johns' The Countess (2010), and I read two papers in the May 2014 Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, "Freshwater shark teeth (Family Lonchidiidae) from the Middle-Upper Triassic (Ladinian-Carnian) Paramillo Formation in the Mendoza Precordillera, Argentina" and "Mosasaurine mosasaurs (Squamata, Mosasauridae) from northern Italy."
Unhappy in the House,