The Patron Saint of Travelers

Perhaps we overestimated our savvy. Breakwaters are old hat, we thought; we knew what we were in for. I opted for my sneakers over my sandals, but left the backpack behind. We were just taking a stroll across the water. 

We moseyed across the harbor, pointing out birds to one another and taking pictures of the tidepools that formed as the water crested over the rocks at the lowest point of the causeway.

If social distancing was our goal, how marvelously we had succeeded! Nobody else had ventured as far as the lighthouse.

On the water, a lobster boat pulled a trawler against the incoming tide.

I watched for seals but saw none.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, Wood End’s light began to flash, a bright speck of red against the pinkening sky.

When we turned back towards town, we congratulated ourselves on our timing. We had outlasted the other walkers and had this magical place to ourselves.

The causeway was empty, save for a lone fisherman, silhouetted against a spectacular setting sun.

Pride goes before a fall. The precious tidepools of before were now a considerable chasm. We tried to remember the topography of the rocks. We took off our shoes and dipped our toes in.

Suddenly, a voice:

I would wait a little while; the current is pretty strong when the tide comes in.

The fisherman had turned towards us, his face shadowed, his voice friendly and firm.

It should be more slack in twenty minutes or so.

Far too late, considering the day’s activities, I Googled the tide chart. The battery on my phone was low; Matt’s was already dead. Nervously, I gauged the time. We were fifteen minutes past sunset; it was still half an hour ‘til high tide. The light was fading quickly now and we still had a mile to walk beyond the water crossing.

There was nothing to do but sit and wait, and try to stave off our panic. Finally, as the last light faded from the sky, the water smoothed out over the surface of the rocks. The fisherman packed up his rod when he saw us make our move. Do you have a flashlight? No? Here, use mine.

We weren’t prepared for any of it. Not for the depth of the water, which soaked us up to our thighs; not for the strength of the current that tugged at our ankles; not for the the slick of the rock under our feet. The fisherman reached out his hand and helped pull us up.

He said his name was Chris. He told us he would walk with us, and made light conversation the whole way back: He comes out here to catch striped bass. He likes these moonlit nights but they sure do add to the current. He never underestimates the power of a river - or the tide.

Well, we made it back to shore, no thanks to ourselves. Chris and his headlamp guided us over several tricky passages, and another two submerged sections. Thank you, we said, feebly. We would have been swept out to sea.

No, no, I wouldn’t have left you. But I didn’t want to go for a swim tonight.

We walked back to the car, stupefied. Matt asked me, why did it ring a bell? Something about Jesus, fishermen, walking on the water?

No, my dear, that was St. Christopher. Carrying us safely over the stream.