It is best to be seen, I think, when the wind is not too high. A gale
blows up a surf, but it also flattens out the incoming rollers, making
monstrous, foamy travelling mounds of them much like those visible from
a ship at sea. Not until the wind has dropped do the breakers gather
form. The finest surf I have ever seen here--it was a Northern recoil
of the great Florida hurricane--broke on three pleasant and almost
windless autumn days. The storm itself had passed us, but our seas had
been stirred to their deeps. Returning to the Cape at night from a trip
to town, I heard the roar of the ocean in Orleans, and on arriving
at Nauset, found the beach flooded to the dunes, and covered with a
churn of surf and moonlight. Dragging a heavy suitcase and clad in my
go-to-town clothes, I had an evil time getting to the Fo’castle over
the dune tops and along the flooded marsh.
Many forces mingle in the surf of a storm--the great earth rhythm of
the waves, the violence of wind, the struggle of water to obey its
own elemental law. Out of the storm at sea come the giants and, being
giants, trip far out, spilling first on the outer bar. Shoreward then
they rush, breaking all the way. Touching the beach, they tumble in
a roar lost in a general noise of storm. Trampled by the wind and
everlastingly moved and lifted up and flung down by the incoming seas,
the water offshore becomes a furious glassiness of marbly foam; wild,
rushing sheets of seethe fifty feet wide border it; the water streams
with sand.
Under all this move furious tidal currents, the longshore undertow of
outer Cape Cod. Shore currents here move in a southerly direction;
old wreckage and driftwood is forever being carried down here from
the north. Coast guard friends often look at a box or stick I have
retrieved, and say, “Saw that two weeks ago up by the light.”
After an easterly, I find things on the beach which have been blown
down from the Gulf of Maine--young, uprooted spruce trees, lobster
buoys from Matinicus, and, after one storm, a great strewing of empty
sea-urchin shells. Another easterly washed up a strewing of curious
wooden pebbles shaped by the sea out of the ancient submerged forests
which lie just off the present coast. They were brown-black, shaped
like beach stones, and as smooth as such stones.
The last creature I found in the surf was a huge horseshoe crab, the
only one I have ever chanced to find on the outside. Poor _Limulus
polyphemus_! The surf having turned him upside down, he had as usual
doubled up, and the surf had then filled with sand the angle of his
doubling. When I discovered him, he was being bullied by a foam slide,
and altogether in a desperate way. So I picked him up, rinsed the sand
out of his waving gills, held him up all dripping by the tail, and
flung him as far as I could to seaward of the breakers. A tiny splash,
and I had seen the last of him, a moment more, and the surf had filled
the hollow in which he had lain.
Autumnal easterlies and November tides having scoured from the beach
its summer deeps of sand, the high seasonal tides now run clear across
to the very foot of the dunes. Under this daily overflow of cold, the
last of the tide-rim hoppers and foragers vanish from the beach. An icy
wind blusters; I hear a dry tinkle of sand against my western wall;
December nears, and winter closes in upon the coast.
_Chapter IV_