I walk every morning with our dog, sometimes along the beach, sometimes heading cross-island toward the bay and back, all depending on whim and wind. Each morning is different, especially in April.
One day last week, the air was warm and the wind off the ocean. The chop was building on the water, and the ground fog obscured all but the tops of the tallest towers in Atlantic City across the inlet. For the first time this season, I could smell the sea before I crossed the dune line. That salty, briny, earthy rich smell that is the North Atlantic was back. For me, on this charming sand bar that I call home, it is as much a sign of spring as the greening of the grass or the song of the robins. Although there were others out and about, the sea fog dampened all sound and wrapped us in solitude.
The following day, the dog and I lowered our heads and beat to windward against a driving rain in a strong northeast blow. The ocean boiled, looking angry. Not even the dog wanted to sniff for signs of spring. The mercury dropped, the barometer dropped, and our spirits dropped with them. This time, we were the only fools in sight.
All it takes is a simple change in wind direction to change everything. By late afternoon the wind had shifted, the clouds blew away, and a confused and angry ocean had sorted itself into a beatiful ground swell while the west wind stood the waves up nicely and blew the foam off the crests. The rollers in the inlet looked like steam locomotives under full power as they raced toward the bay. Along the boardwalk, surfers were taking full advantage of the longer daylight to enjoy perfect surf conditions, riding waves as the lowering sun lit up the crests like spotlights on their efforts.
Tomorrow, we will walk again. The wind will tell us which way to go, but only time will tell what we will see.