Winds Along the Dunes

by WYMAN RICHARDSON, M.D.

1

MY ELDEST son, Wyman, Jr., considers me a very good long-range weather prophet — “long” taken to mean a prophecy covering the next day’s weather. Whenever I make such a forecast, he plans on exact ly the opposite conditions.

Be that as it may, in our doings at the Farm House, at Eastham on outer Cape Cod, we do not need to know the next day’s weather. We may lie awake planning what we will do in our forecasted weather; but should it i urn out differently, our plans can easily be shifted. It is, however, important, when we plan our expeditions, to know what the weather is going to do in the next four to six hours. I do claim to be an expert for this interval.

Here, on the Nauset Marsh, our short-range forecasts depend on a knowledge of local weather habits; observation of wind and cloud changes — the “trend,” as we call it; the set to a little barometer we have, which, though it records readings about eight tenths of an inch too high, rises and falls as does any other barometer, sometimes with great celerity.

In winter, it is fairly easy. The weather tends to go in cycles. With a high glass, the day will dawn clear. There is either a flat calm, or there are light and variable airs. Visibility is good. Objects stand out in sharp profile. Even the wires on the poles on the East Orleans headland can be seen with the naked eye. Sounds seem to be magnified. Hermie Dill’s banging on a tire rim comes sharply across the bay below the hill, and the whistle of the up freight sounds complainingly clear, even from South Wellfleet. As the surf begins to make up, its ceaseless roar seems to come from close aboard the house.

Shortly the sun’s brilliance becomes slightly dulled. An almost invisible “smur” spreads over the sky from the southwest. A ring appears about the sun. What wind there was, dies out. Gradually the “smur” thickens; a light air comes in from the east, and the barometer starts to drop. Such a day, known as a “weather-breeder” on Cape Cod, means a real easterly is in the offing.

I can, while in bed, tell by the sound from which direction the wind is blowing — that is, if it has any force. An easterly or northeasterly makes only a loud rushing noise. There is very little banging, and the windows do not rattle. A nor’wester roars steadily through the cedar at the southwest corner of the house. It roars hard and it roars loud, but it has a clean sound, and when I try to take a sip of water from the glass by my bed, I bump my nose on a skim of ice. A summer sou’wester, that horrid hot blast, rattles and shakes, bangs and batters, blows through the windows and screens, covers sheets and table with dirt, and makes life miserable. This is the “smoky sou’wester,” the thinnest wind there is. A good, solid southeaster, on the other hand, smacks the windows with pelting rain, while their loud rattling interferes with sleep.

Let me tell you of one December nor’wester.

The previous day s northeast gale, splashing rain and slush into our faces, drove the tide ‘wav over the marsh and flooded our cover just as the ducks started to fly. We came home wet, cold, tired, and discouraged, with very little to show for our efforts. But during the night the wind backed into the non hwest. From time to time, between our dreams, the steady roar from the cedars proclaimed its presence, as did also the cold toes and the cold nose.

The alarms, two of them just for safety, start their clatter at four-fifteen. The wise one, who has slept in his woolly underwear, builds a quick fire in the fireplace, before which he bundles up for the coming ordeal. A quick breakfast of coffee, bacon, and eggs is prepared on the oil stove. The coal stove is also started, to keep the pump from freezing. Come to think of it, better trip the pump anyway. The thermometer outside the kitchen window records 18 degrees.

Then we stumble down the hill, burdened with gun, shells, water (which will freeze), and lunch (which will also freeze). The wind blows stark from the northwest, so strong that to look into it numbs the face and waters the eyes. Anticipatory excitement is tempered by a real feeling of fear. Can we make it and get back safely? Already a red dawn begins to show, and fast-scurrying purple clouds become salmon-tinted. Quickly we Stow away our gear and push off into the dark water.

It is a simple trip down the marsh — that is, if the tide is either up or down. But beware the half tide. Under such conditions, it takes long experience, real knowledge, and a considerable amount of luck to find your way out to the main channel through the winding run from the Salt Pond Creek. Otherwise, it’s a fair wind, and only your left arm gets tired trying to keep your gunning float from yawing.

Likely it’s Byzoon Cove you are heading tor, a spot little appreciated by the rank and file. Incidentally, a Farm House byzoon is the ideal duck day: the wind from the nor’west, at 32 miles pet hour: the temperature 28.5 degrees Fahrenheit; snow squalls every twenty minutes, lasting for four minutes. Many neophytes make the mistake of calling all-out gales or storms, especially if from the northwest, byzoons. This is greatly to be deplored, as such storms lead to much suffering and usually little game.

Byzoon Cove is the place to be in a typical byzoon, for it is one of the few places on the Nauset Marsh where one can shoot black ducks on a lee shore. This is very desirable, as otherwise, if there is a fly of birds, many shots will be lost when you are out in the boat to retrieve your game.

Daylight comes. Your shooting is highly inaccurate. (Why shouldn’t it be, you say, when you are facing into a gale of wind, when you are bundled up to the cars, and when your fingers, even inside your mittens, are so numb you cannot tell thumb from forefinger?) Still and all, you have accumulated several days’ supply of dinner. Many ducks have come fighting up the main channel, have seen your decoys, and have come sliding in on stiff wings. When really close, the light streak about the face looks almost white. How could you miss such an easy shot? Did you allow for windage?

Comes lunchtime. The cold chicken is really cold, so cold it has to be thawed in the mouth before it can be eaten. The water bottle is half frozen, but not broken. Fortunately, one does not need much water under such conditions. The thermos bottle of once hot coffee turns out only a lukewarm brew.

Meanwhile, ice is forming all the time. The decoys’ heads get so iced that they capsize. Slur begins to change to cake ice. You wonder about the upper channels. Are they getting plugged? The day wanes; as the sun drops, the cold increases. And all of a sudden, the thought of the cozy Farm House becomes irresistible.

Then starts the long fight home against the ebb. You watch a clam shell on the bottom, where the tide runs strong by Pull-devil Corner. You see it first just forward of the forward oar-post. You pull and pull, and then you see it amidships. Pull, pull some more, and finally it disappears astern. After a long, long while you get under the lee of the hill, and coast back to the boathouse.

Finally the last, long, weary trudge up the hill; the “clumpf” of boots on the platform, the breaking open of guns to make sure that they are unloaded, and, as the door is opened, that indescribable, delicious Farm House smell. The house seems warm at first. But no sooner are one’s outer layers peeled than it becomes apparent that it is not warm. There is ice in the water pitcher. Before long, fires are roaring, and warming drinks forthcoming. It wasn’t so bad, after all, down there on the marsh.

I make no apologies for shooting ducks, and no excuses. Nature in many respects seems very cruel.

I remember watching a garter snake trying to swallow a wood frog. The snake had the frog by one leg, and the frog was trying to hop away by means of the other. My sympathies were with the frog; but I did not interfere. It seemed to me that the snake had as much right on his side as did the frog on his. (As it happened, the frog won out.) Man is an omnivorous animal and, to satisfy his carnivorous needs, destroys countless other animals.

So it is that Farm House Rule 1 reads that anything shot must be eaten. (A later ammendment excepted rats, mice, and fur-bearing animals.) Consequently, especially when a boy, I came to eat many strange things, including hawk, gull, grebe, night heron, and crow. (If properly prepared, they are all good except crow.)

2

A NOR’WESTER is a fighting man’s wind. It blows clean and strong. It knows the rules and plays the game. It may lick you in a fair fight, but at least you know what you are dealing with.

Not so with one of those cussed smoky sou’westers. It’s the sneakiest wind there is. Suppose you are out sailing a light boat. With some pride, by leaning ‘way out to windward, you go through the strongest puff with full sail, only to capsize to windward as the breeze suddenly quits.

It’s a fussy wind, a complaining wind. It shrieks through the screens one minute and heaves a subsiding sigh the next. It’s a humid wind. It cakes the salt shakers and mildews the sails. It’s a lasting wind. It’s a horrid wind.

For days on end, sometimes for nearly two weeks, the canoe will stay land-bound. Each day, more and more scud clouds make up, the haze thickens, and you think a good rain will clear things up. But not so. This is just one of the sou’wester’s tricks. It makes you think it is bringing on a good rain that will freshen the crops and fill the well; but just as it becomes darkest, a ray of sunshine streaks across the southern sky, and it is hazy and hot again.

About all a sou’wester is good for, here at the Farm House, is fishing off the beach. One must admit that a good fresh southwest breeze will carry an eel a long way out to sea; not that it matters much, but somehow it makes you feel that your fishing has become more important, if not more dignified. Trouble is, these sou’westers frequently blow so hard that they blow the sand. Have you ever been on the Nauset Beach when the sand was blowing? Well, you don’t want to be.

Fishing, as we do, with bare feet and bare legs, the sand stings like a thousand biting ants. We perforce take to the water, where we become thoroughly soaked, by underestimating the “swooshers.” (There may be an easterly swell, even in a southwester.) You learn to figure the big seas. They pile up higher and higher, pound down, not far from your feet, and sweep up the rise with a regularity that is easily dealt with. But beware the swoosher. It does not look like much. It is not a high wave, and frequently follows docilely the path of its bigger brother, but it carries a lot of power. Without noise or fuss, it comes welling up the rise and, catching you completely off guard, soaks you from fore to aft, mostly aft.

If you figured on supper on the beach, and dumped a basket of food, extra clothing, and extra reel, better leave it there. Neither food nor clothing nor reel will ever be any good again. Unless you have a gizzard, you cannot use the food; your greatgrandchildren will still find sand in their inherited clothing; and the reel will squeak and grind forever after.

Smoky sou’westers are most frequent in July and August. If you plan on coming down to the Farm House, better wait until September. Even then, you may not escape.

3

UNLESS it be a question of beach fishing, a “dry northeaster” is one of our best winds. In late March or early April, likely you will run into one.

This is a wonderful time of year to stay at the Farm House. There are no activities which require a huge amount of thought and effort, such as duck shooting or bass fishing. Though the flounders may run large (my wife caught one of 4 1/4 pounds) it is ordinarily very cold sport; and the thought of filleting tempers the fun.

There comes a morning in late March when the brightness of the rising sun, shining through your south window, wakes you at six-thirty. The floor is cold; the house is cold. You build a quick fire in the fireplace, having remembered to get the firewood and kindling ready the night before. Your first weather observation comes only after you have fully, but not too warmly, dressed before the fire. The thermometer reads 38 degrees, the wind is fresh from the northeast, the sky is clear, and the air is full of the finest champagne.

The best thing to do on such a day is to walk down the beach to the Inlet and back. At ten o clock you start off, full of energy, blowing all the dust-laden, worry-burdened city air out of your system, and replacing it with the clean, fresh, salttangy breeze from the sea.

First you skirt the Cedar Bank. So high it is, that you can see the whole marsh laid out before you. You will find six Canada geese on the Minister’s Flat, the old gander standing erect, neck outstretched, only occasionally taking time out to find some succulent root. You will find black ducks, mostly in pairs, darker blobs on the dark sedge, which has been cropped short by the winter’s ice. You will see whistlers (goldeneyes) fly up the channel, stop, turn, and light with unbelievable suddenness; and if the wind is not too strong, you may hear the musical winnowing of the cock whistler’s wings.

Further along, by Clam Diggers Headquarters, you will find a flock of about twenty-five buffleheads, those tiny fast-flying ducks, the male with a pie-shaped piece of white transecting his lovely iridescent purple head. In the pines by Little Creek you will start out eight or ten hardy night herons that have spent the winter there, unless that fierce marauder, the great horned owl, has cleaned them out. By the marsh shore, you skirt the cliff, atop which is perched the Nauset Coast Guard Station, and start your walk down the beach.

It is best to go down the beach on the inside, that is, on the marsh side — just why I do not know. You may see various kinds of fowl on the way down, and surely many black ducks. Horned larks will fly past in loose flocks, uttering their curious thin little note. (“Pippy-birds” we used to call them.) If you are lucky, you will see on the top of a Coast Guard telephone pole a snowy owl. As you approach fairly close, his neckless head appears to turn around and around, while his baleful brassy eye glares menacingly at you.

When you get to the Inlet Run, a deep pool that comes up to a sandy beach will tempt you, and you may take a “swim” — or more accurately, a dip and dry off in the lee of a high dune, where the wind has undercut a “hen-bank.”

Finally you reach the Inlet, where a fast ebb is boiling out through a deep channel. Further out, where the channel shoals, the current meets the surge of oncoming seas, carried by the force of the fresh northeast breeze. From bar to bar, all the way across the mouth, is a smother of white, and only the experienced eye can tell where the channel runs.

Then comes the turn back on the outer beach, the Great Beach, that stretches from the tip of Monomoy to Race Point at Provincetown. As you gaze north and south, the beach gives you a feeling of infinity; it seems as if it must go on and on, as it disappears into the haze of breaking surf. Not so the horizon, sharp and clear, broken only by the lumpiness of the sea. It seems shaped like the edge of a saucer, and appears to curve comfortingly back to land.

The sting of the breeze off the sea gives you fresh energy, as first you try walking the soft sand at the top of the rise, and then the wet sand at the bottom, where you have to be nimble to avoid a wetting. Stunning white gannets, their black wingtips often not noticeable, glide to windward over wave crest and into trough with almost no effort. A curious seal will pop his doglike head out of the water at 40 yards and, reappearing every 100 yards or so, will follow you along all the way to the Coast Guard. And if again you are lucky, you will hear a sweet little whistle, and if you look sharp, you will see a light-colored stone suddenly start to run on twinkling feet. It’s a piping plover, whose cheery note and beady black eye tender you a wary welcome.

It’s a long walk up the beach but the invigorating air has sustained you. Now comes the hard part. You have left the beach at the Coast Guard cut-through, and again have reached the pines at Little Creek, known to us as the “Quawkery,” where the night herons were. Better stop for ten minutes’ rest and look over the marsh with the glasses. You might see a European widgeon; and you will very likely see eight or ten of the big pond sheldrake, or goosanders, for they seem to like the region of Little Creek.

It’s hard to heave your bulk off the mossy sand at the Quawkery and start the last lap back. No skirting the Cedar Bank now. It is a straight course to the Farm House. You pass that pond, and for the twenty-first time put the glasses on the dark object on the further shore, and discover it to be a stump. Then down by the little pondhole back of the barn, where once we saw a pair of wood ducks, and once a single scaup, and often a black duck or two. And so up the last long hill to that gray, cocky little Farm House that looks as if it had been standing there for centuries. Who knows? Perhaps it has.