The whole weekend leaked away; finally Sunday afternoon made it out to Salt Creek Park. The tide rising, Tongue Point under the waves, and incoming rollers washing past the little island.
No harlequin ducks, and no oystercatchers. Not even gulls. One eagle hanging around. Some people were out in the small waves where the outflowing creek was now submerged, learning to stand-up-paddle. They fell off a lot. It looked like fun.
The weather changed and changed and changed. A stiff wind was blowing from the north, so I sat on the narrow steps leading down, next to a tree functioning as a windbreak. The tidepools were submerged, so nobody came down the steps for a long time; I read my book. A Canadian couple came. "Is this Tongue Point?" they asked, pointing at the bottom of the stairs. "No, it's out there, mostly under the water," I tell them. "You have to come when the tide is low." They will check the tide table on the sign board at the top of the stairs. "I'm afraid it will be awfully early tomorrow morning, but you have to be here when it says. The tide won't wait for you."