Author: Marty Luster

As we move into late winter and early spring, be on the lookout for young foxes in their cozy dens amid the granite boulders. This one lived at our last residence in NY, but I have seen one from my kitchen window here in Gloucester.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dreams of Flight

About 64 years ago, I got my first two – wheeler.

It had been junked by its prior owner and my eagle eyed

father thought it would fill the bill. He was right, but he didn’t know

that for many years that bike would trigger my dreams of flight.

For the few years I had that rusty wreck that had marginal

brakes and a seat that twisted and pointed as I leaned my body

into high speed turns, tricky maneuvers and sneaker sole stops,

it not only served as my principal means of transportation,

it was also my plane which, after achieving sufficient ground speed,

I could lift into the air by pulling back on the handlebars.

Landings were always fun. I would identify the edge of

the runway some distance off and slowly descend until the

wheels touched the earth to begin the bumpy taxi to

the hangar. While other kids my age had their motorcycles and trucks,

I had my small light plane, just like the ones we watched dust the crops.

Long after the bike was gone, I repeatedly dreamed of flight.

If I ran fast enough and spread my arms, I could lift off

and fly over the neighborhood, without need of plane or wings,

but when I awoke, I’d always remember that old bike.

I hadn’t had flying dreams in many years, but when we moved here

to Gloucester and watching seagulls launch, and gain altitude, soar

into the clouds and land, became part of my daily routine; and

since I believe, no matter what others may think , that the gulls

feel joy and pride when they fly, I, now, nearing 70 years,

once again dream of flight.

Marty Luster

Okay, so there’s a little spelling error. It’s not like it’s chiseled in stone.

 Click image to enlarge.

Rhythm of the Tide

There are places, like the Goose Cove Causeway, where

the tide rushes into the cove, sounding like a

marathon runner sucking air during the

last kick before reaching the finish line.

The water foams and the buoys bend and the

tidal current rips under the bridge with just

a brief pause at slack to catch its breath before

reversing direction and roaring out.

Viewing the tide at such places can be

exhilarating and fascinating, but

I prefer to do my tide watching at the

calm pools and rivulets of Jones Creek.

In peaceful weather, through the afternoon into

the evening, I stand there listening to the

serene, quiet breath of the earth as the pool

gently rises and falls – a giant liquid Buddha.

It’s easy, in times such as those, to become

part of the pool, like the mist that sometimes forms

on the surface on a cool, still evening and

stays attached as the breath goes in and out.

My body is the body of the earth;

the rhythm of the tide governs my breath and the

flow of the creek, pumped by the heart of the ocean,

nourishes me and cleanses me.

I will stare, listen and I will breathe with the tide

and receive renewed life blood from its flow

and be one with this wondrous world until

the tide runs no more and the creek  is finally dry.

Marty Luster

Hi Marty.

Here are 4 of my photos I had in an album in my Facebook.

I lost my husband Frank in 2006 to Prostate Cancer. He and I used to drive up to Gloucester often from 1983 onward, and eventually bought a condo at Mast Hill.  Enticed by the warm climate and a business venture in Texas, we ended up selling it, as he wanted to help set up a business for some Indian business acquaintances.

I’ve visited Gloucester about 3-4 times since losing him. It is hard to accept and so I use these pictures occasionally to feel I haven’t lost everything.  They obviously are not capturing the beauty your pictures have, but here they are.

I’ve received nightly Good Morning Gloucester for about 3 years I think.  It makes me feel at home.  I was just there at end of April and stayed a couple days at Long Beach but the photos were overly cloudy and only important and nice to me.  I was used to misty foggy morning walks on the beaches, and so will keep those for myself. My son used to come visit us and he loves the area too and I always liked this that my husband took of us peering into the crevices at the sea creatures.

Thank you.

Best of luck and I will continue to enjoy your pictures on GMG.

Best regards,
Carol Londres

Click on image for slide show.

I just can’t resist these high contrast, high structure cloud shots.

Dog Bar Breakwater

It’s quite a simple structure, given its task:

blocks of granite, each one thirteen tons, piled neatly

and securely on and next to the other.

So far it has survived more than one hundred

years of tides, winds, waves, heat of summer and the

numbing cold of winter.

Like a mother’s guarding arm, it protects our boats

from the dangerous surf, deflects the fury

of the sometimes angry sea; provides a measure

of calm to our harbor and is home to the beacon

and signal that guide us safely to our berths.

On fine days, it is a place of walks, picnics,

picture taking, artists painting, people fishing,

quiet talks and, each September, we watch schooners

head out for their annual race into the past.

On stormy  days, if one dares go out to see,

we witness giant sea upon sea doing their best

to crest over the topmost blocks as if to challenge

the very notion that we, by force of will,

can make any harbor safe.

It is a noble effort that makes me wonder:

we have built the Dog Bar breakwater, but

can we, on our stormy days, prevent ourselves

from dashing recklessly upon  hidden bars

by careful placement of blocks of wisdom,

and, on the good days, walk along the tops amid

waves of joy and gratitude?

Marty Luster