High water morning

Every fall we get a few mornings when the bay comes up higher than it has any right to. People call them king tides. The water slides over the seawall, spreads across the low end of a parking lot, and sits there looking pleased with itself while everybody walks around it in flip-flops.

There's nothing dramatic about it. Nobody's in danger, there's no siren, no bad news on the radio. It's just the Gulf reminding us that this whole town is a thin strip of sand and good luck sitting very close to sea level.

I've always liked those mornings. The light is clean, the air smells like salt and wet cement, and a heron stands in the new puddle like it planned the whole thing. Strangers say good morning more than usual. Somebody always points at the water and laughs.

That's the same feeling I was after in "Two-Foot Tide." The water doesn't ask permission, and the best response is to roll up your pants and walk through it. If you're out this week and the street is a little wet, take the long way. Enjoy the view.