Fog crawls up the cliffs and drifts just offshore, playing hide and seek with the nub of land - almost, but not quite an island - that gave the beach its name.
A lighthouse once played sentinel on the Head, guiding ships and barges up the Bay of Fundy, signaling the wharf that served a small settlement at this crack in a craggy coast - a settlement where workers chiseled copper and gypsum from the cliffs until there was nothing left. The rounded pebbles at my feet hold hints of these memories, but little else remains to remind of this era. Nature is forgiving and has a way of playing hide and seek with the destruction we cause.
Martin Head is still a busy place...but only in season. On summer weekends, crowds of partygoers run roughshod in ATVs, dirt bikes and Jeeps. People who take of the beauty, then leave their tracks and refuse behind.
Today, in solitude, with only crows and each other for comfort, we explored different parts of the beach - Pat where the cliff meets the sand, me where the sand meets the sea ~
I stood, wondering how we became so disconnected from the world at our feet, the life that breathes in our face. I stood facing the sea, my heart split wide open, turning my back on the ache of last year's tattered tarps, beer cans and box toilets. I stood, reaching for something I could not quite grasp, wishing to leave a piece of myself here...a piece that belonged, that I could come back to.
Bowing my head, a single stone at my feet rocked in the surf.
I was reminded of the words of David Weale, from his book Chasing the Shore. He speaks of finding stones in the sand.
"As I stooped again and again it struck me that there was a stone on that beach to match my every thought and feeling and far from being mute, each was calling out in its own way for communion with the ancient parts of me..."