Last week’s storms surges dumped a mass of rockweed onto the False Outer Point beaches. Severed from their holdfasts, the rockweed turns from living cadmium orange to the color of iodine. The weed fills the air above the beach with the smell of iodine and my mind with the memory of my mother saying, “you know it is working if it stings,” as she brushes the dark-brown antiseptic on my cut finger.
Aki hunts for interesting smells among the rockweed blankets as fog thickens between the glacier and us. It pours out of the forest, over North Douglas Highway and onto our beach. This is not Carl Sandburg’s fog that comes on little cat feet. This fog slithers onto the water like a snake.
If we were on a boat, I’d be concerned, if not scared. But here on solid ground, with a headland providing a reference point, I can enjoy how the fog snakes around islands and cuts us off from everything with its white wall, carrying the sounds of growling sea lions and scolding eagles.