We made our way down to the SS Daisy today. I wash a lengthy piece of Calico in the machine and tear it into manageable bits. We pack the bag with all the necessities: wire cutters, rope, vinegar, scissors, pocket knife, camera, and a thermos of hot toddy. The bag steeps for 6 minutes and I laugh at the mound of honey swirled in by David. The canister is topped off bourbon and we are ready to go.
There are 4 new signs twist tied to the chainlink gate. Dangers, prohibited, private property, security cameras. I want the words to flick through my mind and depart the other end but they are weighty words and charged with histories of fear and restrictions. I run my fingers along a puck of ice that has formed across the top of a hollowed pole- working to yank out the perfectly round shape I laugh and transport myself to some day at some time as an eight year old girl wanting some form of elusive perfection. Something beautiful and ugly to take home. Something to pull out of somewhere knowing it won’t last.
It’s low tide. We time it carefully. A big snowfall two days ago, a sunny afternoon and an exposed ocean floor mid afternoon. We wrap the sheets of cotton around rusted gears and poles and machines heads and against rectangles and portals. Wire and string are twisted tightly around as little bits of seaweed and rusted nails and wedged between.