Waiting for High Tide Read online

  Nikki McClure

  Abrams Books for Young Readers

  New York

  WAITING FOR HIGH TIDE.

  I close my eyes and open them.

  Close and open.

  Still low tide.

  I squint and wait.

  There is a big stretch of mud between me and the water’s

  edge. I want to swim, but I’d just get muddy. Or worse.

  I’d get stuck, and Grandma would have to rescue me.

  It seems like I spend every day all hot summer long waiting

  for the water to creep back over the mud. I’m not alone.

  Crabs under rocks, clams and worms burrowed deep,

  barnacles closed tight—they wait for high tide too. It takes

  six hours for the water to rise from low tide to high tide.

  That’s a long time!

  I WANT TO SWIM NOW.

  INSTEAD, I SIT AND WAIT.

  But it’s not going to be so bad today.

  TODAY WE ARE GOING

  TO BUILD A RAFT.

  We found a big log drifting loose after a storm and towed

  it to our beach. Last night we cut it up into three sections.

  I had to stuff my fingers in my ears when Papa started the

  chainsaw.

  The three smaller logs were too heavy to move with our

  hands alone. While the tide was high, Papa rolled the logs

  into the water, using a peavey as a lever. The logs floated.

  We easily lined them up side by side. Then the tide went out,

  and now the logs sit on the beach, waiting to become a raft.

  Mama and Papa, even Grandma, are here to help.

  We are not the only ones ready to work this morning . . .

  Crows scan the morning high-tide line for useful tidbits. I follow

  them. “The sea provides,” Mama says. The beach always has what

  you need. Maybe today there is pirate treasure.

  I FIND:

  one fine long pole

  four clamshells

  miscellaneous crab parts

  three dead jellyfish

  green and brown seaweeds that pop

  curved pieces of bark perfect to float . . .

  and sink with a volley of rocks

  a bedraggled heron wing feather

  tiny bits of yellow plastic rope

  a soggy shoe that does not match any in my collection

  a true score—sunglasses with one lens gone and

  the other covered with barnacles. Now I have Barnacle

  Vision!

  Oh, I have to get real glasses to help me see.

  I DON‘T WANT TO WEAR GLASSES.

  I CAN SEE FINE ENOUGH.

  I can see everything on this beach . . .

  IS THE TIDE COMING IN?

  I put on my barnacle glasses, and I still can’t see from here.

  I step light and quick across the mud, taking a bridge of

  crushed clamshells out to piles of barnacle-covered rock

  exposed by the low tide. I call the biggest pile Big Crab

  Island. The smallest pile is Little Crab Island. Peeking under

  a rock, I spy a hundred crabs that rustle and scurry to hide.

  They prefer to wait for high tide in cool shadow safety.

  Mama says that the rock piles are from ships that came here

  long ago. The sailors would dump the ballast of rocks and

  then fill the hull and decks with a heavy cargo of logs from

  the forests. The timber became the ship’s ballast, steadying

  it for the sea journey home. The logs were used to build

  cities all along the Pacific coast. The crabs made their own

  city under the rocks left behind.

  Look! With my Barnacle Vision, I can see that the tide

  isn’t waiting for me. Soon Big Crab Island will really be an

  island—before it disappears under water. I dash back across

  the mud to higher ground.

  MUDDY, BUT WITH BOTH SHOES STILL

  ON, I START WORK ON THE RAFT.

  I haul the fine long pole I found over to Papa, and he cuts

  it into three fine short poles and lays them across the logs.

  Mama marks where they line up on the logs. Notches need

  to be chopped here. The poles will fit in the grooves. We will

  then tie the poles to the logs to hold the raft together.

  With two hands on my hatchet’s handle and my legs safely

  out of the way, I swing down and chop into the first log.

  CHOP, CHIP, CHOP, CHIP, CHOP.

  Three notches done and I need a rest. I pass the hatchet

  over to Mama, who gives a few chops and chips of her own.

  I walk along a ribbon of barnacles that stripes the upper beach.

  They cover the big rocks here that the waves can’t tumble.

  When barnacles are young, they swim all over as part of the

  plankton that drift in the sea. They have only one eye. ( Just like

  my barnacle glasses!) With it, they look for other barnacles.

  When they find them, they settle down and cement their heads

  to something solid and barnacly: rocks, docks, lost sunglasses.

  And there they stay.

  During low tide, the rocky beach gets hot and dry, but

  barnacles don’t care. Their tough shells close tight, and they

  can breathe whether they’re in or out of water. At high tide,

  barnacles feed. Tiny plates open, and feathered cirri (their

  legs!) swoop out to catch plankton (yes, little swimming

  barnacles, too). I could stare at them for hours and have

  the water cover me and still sit there watching them.

  But the best part about barnacles is the noise they make.

  Miles and miles of tiny plates shifting about make a crackly,

  squizzling sound. Maybe they tell stories of all they saw with

  that one eye as they swam about in the world?

  WHAT WILL I SEE?

  WHAT STORIES WILL I TELL?

  But first I need to work. I take my hatchet and chop. Chip,

  chop, chip.

  THE TIDE CREEPS IN LITTLE BY LITTLE.

  I chop and chip and listen to gulls squawking, “FOOD,

  FOOD, FOOD!”

  I call out, “FOOD!” and then add “please,” so my parents

  don’t fly away. From Mama’s handy picnic basket, I unpack

  peanut butter sandwiches, cold mint tea, and sweet

  watermelon.

  We eat and talk and watch the gulls being followed

  relentlessly by their awkward gray young. They know that

  the incoming tide means food.

  There are hidden treats under the mud. Hungry unseeing

  clams dig up from the mud to feed on plankton in the rising

  water. Gulls walk the waterline looking for them. Muddy

  beaks pry up the blackened shells.

  Some gulls take a clam and fly in circles over the rocks . . .

  hover . . . and drop the shell. “Crack!” They flutter down

  to eat the soft clam inside before another gull swoops in.

  Other gulls take a clam in beak and waddle up the shore.

  “Nothing to see here, folks.” Then they hit the shell, once,

  twice—up to six times—on a rock to crack it open. When

  the clam inside is eaten, they waddle back to dig up more.

  EVERYONE IS FEASTING:

  clam, gull, human, and all the life in the mud

  too small to see or fathom.

  The tide creeps high
er, and the barnacles start to feed.

  Under water, fish called sculpins zip about and crabs clean

  clam bits from gull-broken shells. A heron calmly lifts a leg

  high and cocks his head to one side, waiting for a sculpin to

  move. A sudden dart of sharp beak into the water; then he

  shakes his head and goes back to the silent stare and patient

  walk along the shore. How long will the sculpin lie still,

  camouflaged like a rock? This sculpin is willing to wait a bit

  more for the tide to come in and the water to deepen.

  A boat goes by, and its wake rolls along the beach. The tide is

  rising. I put my sandwich down to finish chopping.

  Mama sets poles across the notches I cut. Papa digs holes

  under the logs at each crossing point. Then he threads rope

  under and over the logs, under and over, under and over,

  and lashes the poles to the logs. If we nailed them together,

  the nails would snap as the logs rolled through white-

  capped winter storms and summers full of wild kids diving

  off all at the same time. Mama wedges a pry bar under the

  pole so Papa can pull even tighter. He then ties a knot.

  I chop the last notch.

  OUR RAFT IS ALMOST DONE.

  We need the tide to rise a bit higher before we can push the

  raft into the water. And we need a plank. I scout through

  piles of driftwood heaved up all winter and spy a board just

  the right size. A raft needs a plank for us to dive off of or be

  forced to walk by swimmers-turned-pirates. I drag the thick

  board over, and Papa lashes it on.

  The raft is ready! The tide is not. So we nibble cookies and

  wait. A kingfisher rattles a warning to all fish in the sea

  and plunges into the water. Up he flies with a stickleback

  trapped in his beak, his wait over. The tide keeps rising.

  Big Crab Island is well under water. Crabs explore and feed

  freely. The mud flats are under water. Clams are safe from

  observant gulls. Sculpins swim, patrolling the mud for food.

  MAYBE IT IS TIME?

  I’VE WAITED SO LONG.

  I WANT TO DIVE.

  I WANT TO SWIM.

  I put on my barnacle glasses and take a peek. The water is

  now only a foot away. I could wait for the water to lift the

  raft, but I’ve already waited all day! I grab a chunk of bark

  and start digging under the logs. “Help! Help!” I call. It will

  take more than me to get this raft moving. Mama, Papa, and

  even Grandma grab shovels and sticks and start digging to

  clear a way for the water under the raft. Water creeps under

  the first log, settling tiny stones and filling in the space. I

  keep digging. Tiny bits of clamshells and sand fly. Papa finds

  a stout pole in the driftwood stores. He tries to lever the raft

  down the beach, just a bit, to ride in the deepening water.

  He tries and tries. We all push, and maybe the raft shifts an

  inch, maybe not. It’s just too heavy. It is crazy to think we

  can move this raft, but with each push we imagine that this is

  the push that will make the raft slip into the rising water.

  Crows circle. Seals chasing fish stop to watch with shiny

  eyes. An eagle laughs overhead.

  A breath of rest, and then we all push as hard as we can . . .

  and the raft moves! Another push, and it gives way.

  THE RAFT IS FLOATING!

  I hop on board, and the raft sways. Papa grabs some paddles,

  and everyone climbs on board. Kicking, splashing, laughing,

  we paddle the raft out to where it will be moored, just next

  to Big Crab Island over the mud flats. Papa ties the raft to an

  anchored buoy with a chain. Where he got this, I don’t know.

  He is magic. This day of waiting is over. The water quiets

  around us. Bubbles in our wake pop and fade.

  And whoops! Here we all are, Mama, Papa, Grandma, and me.

  ON THE RAFT.

  WITH ONLY ONE WAY BACK TO SHORE.

  I take the first cannonball off the raft, followed by giant

  splashes. We swim ashore with paddles, with pants and

  shirts and hats and crazy smiling faces.

  WE WAITED FOR HIGH TIDE.

  HERE IT IS.

  We turn back and swim out to the raft and then jump off

  again and again and again.

  Papa holds onto his glasses when he jumps so he doesn’t

  lose them. I don’t have to worry about that yet. My barnacle

  glasses enjoy the plunge. I think I can hear the barnacles

  happily feeding. I let the glasses drift off my face and sink to

  the bottom. Tomorrow I won’t be able to find them. They will

  be gone, but the raft will still be here. Ready for me when the

  tide is high. I’ll be waiting.

  TO FINN AND ALL SWIMMERS

  OF THE SALISH SEA

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  We really did build a raft one summer. It’s named the Leaky

  Kon-Tiki, for Thor Heyerdahl’s intrepid vessel, and it has

  survived a few winters and summers. Now barnacles and

  mussels and even plumose anemones coat the undersides

  and filter the water as we swim about. Otters, herons, and

  ducks like to rest on it, and even Grandma. Once we lay on

  it so long that the tide went out under us and we walked off,

  across the mud. The raft floats at the southern end of the

  Salish Sea, near Olympia, Washington. You can find it on a

  map and look up the tide to see when it’s high.

  http://tidesandcurrents.noaa.gov

  http://www.dairiki.org/tides/monthly.php/oly

  P.S.

  Yes, it is my hatchet. Please ask me before you use it. I am very careful with it and expect you to be the same. The rules are: Two hands on the hatchet at all times, legs out of the way; and that you must always put it away carefully after using it. And never leave it outside! If you leave it outside, I will never let you use my hatchet again.

  The illustrations in this book were made by cutting black paper

  with an X-ACTO knife. I also used a fountain pen.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McClure, Nikki, author, illustrator.

  Waiting for high tide / words and pictures by Nikki McClure.

  pages cm

  Summary: While waiting with family members for high tide to come in,

  a youngster who is very knowledgeable about the seashore and what lives there

  helps to build a raft.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-1656-0

  eISBN 978-1-6131-2928-9

  [1. Beaches—Fiction. 2. Marine animals—Fiction. 3. Tides—Fiction. 4. Family

  life—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M4784141946Wai 2016

  [E]—dc23

  2015018203

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2016 Nikki McClure

  Book design by Nikki McClure and Jessie Gang

  Published in 2016 by Abrams Books for Young Readers, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Abrams Books for Young Readers are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.


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  Nikki McClure, Waiting for High Tide

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