I tidepooled
The extra low lows of 2025
Back in January, I revisited a favorite topic and did a deep dive study on the cycle of the tides. Any sentence I write about that feels like understatement. If you followed the series, you know it was a truly obsessive dive beyond any reasonable level. There were graphs! The college notes were consulted. Everyone was so supportive of my nerd-out, and I love you all. Stacy even mailed me (snail mail!) the notes she took.
I told Rich I’d go tidepooling last Friday, December 5th. The tide under this supermoon was considered a king tide or as I like to say, perigee-syzygy-perihelion tide, taking place in the apex of the 18.6-year maximum potential magnitude of the moon’s maximum monthly declination or lunistice. Perigee-syzygy-perihelion-lunistice!
I did not manage to get anyone to go with me, and as I arrived at the beach I admitted to myself I hadn’t tried that hard. I live with baseline fears as a lone woman in a remote place when it’s near dark, but craved time alone on the beach to wander on no one else’s agenda. The introvert-lone woman tension is one I can’t resolve: men must do better. I have some self-defense training, am not of diminutive size, carry a first aid kit and phone, have intimate familiarity with the places I spend time exploring on the coast… I end up going it alone a lot.
My only iffy interaction this year was an off-leash pitbull running at me with no owner in sight in July on a beach that requires leashes. I didn’t need to round-house kick the dog, he was friendly, despite the fear I’m sure I was flooding his nose with. The fact of an unsupervised dog made me incredibly angry for the dog and the seals and seabirds who are at risk. That same day, unrelated to the dog, I slipped and scraped my elbow and forearm on the jagged rocks. I persevered and made it to the “end” of my favorite tidepool beach, only accessible at extreme tides when seals are not blocking passage. Where a few years ago I peeked around the final reachable headland and gazed upon a natural arch, the arch had collapsed.
It felt so typical-2025 until I turned around and found a bright green shrimp lying atop the eelgrass. I consulted field guides later that day and believe it to be a kelp humpback shrimp (Hippolyte clarki), and this guy is now a personal symbol of perseverance, of turning things around.
November’s best tides coincided with severe weather. December 5th’s weather threatened only to severely dampen me. I hoped the pelting downpour would subside when I left work to head for the beach.
I got the break I’d hoped for. Barely anyone was on the beach, and they had leashed their dogs (bless). I got there around 4 and the tide wouldn’t be at -2.24 feet until 6:38, when it would be fully dark, but there were already lots of accessible tidepools.
A row of sea stacks guards this beach. Within them are situated two more accessible rocky bands of tidepools. In the summer, I’ve climbed the stacks. I’d be too cautious for that on this day. A harbor seal frolicked in the now-shallow water near the stacks. They also seemed content to be all but alone on this damp, gray evening.
A great blue heron fished at the far end of the beach. I turned my gaze to nearer at hand where a nudibranch rested in the pool. I hadn’t expected to see nudibranchs, who tend to be more of a summer find. I was thrilled to see this white-and-orange tipped nudibranch (Janolus fuscus, I believe, though nudibranchs always seem to be undergoing taxonomic revision).
A friend spotted sunflower stars on this beach this summer, which is such heartening news. Locally endangered since 2014, their absence felt keenly for their unfilled role in controlling sea urchins.
Dusk gathered and humans receded. Supermoonlight would not penetrate the thick cloud cover. With my headlamp wrapped on my wrist I pulled my father-in-law Bob’s black light out of my backpack to reveal color secrets. Sea anemones stole the show, and I was on my knees awkwardly balancing lights and camera to document them.
Darkness soon pushed me out of my comfort zone, and I drifted toward the trail to the parking lot. Silhouetted cormorants lined the tall rocks of the headland and breakers became the lightest feature of the shoreline.
At the car, I realized my diaphragm hurt. I’d been holding my breath. Even exhilarated by aloneness and the majesty of it all, fear sometimes talks to me somatically, though my mind strives not to be aware of it. After I stripped off my sand-encrusted rain gear, I used a tried-and-true remedy, breathing, and soon the knot loosened.
I drove home, contemplating the highs and lows (so many lows) of 2025, reflecting on how, at the very lowest points, I sought out this other type of low. “I will tidepool” has been not just a hobby this year, it has been a mission statement, a cairn, a reason to persevere.
I can say this for 2025: I tidepooled!
January 9th low tide 2:53 pm 0.27 feet
April 27th low tide 6:41 am -1.53 feet
April 28th low tide 7:28 am -2.14 feet
April 29th low tide 8:16 -2.35 feet
May 28th low tide at 8:03 am -2.65 feet
June 18th low tide 1:43 PM 0.37 feet
Bears are not my usual Oregon tidepool find! I was in Kodiak, Alaska. Team bear all the way!
July 24th low tide 6:14 am -2.20 feet
December 5th low tide 6:38 pm -2.24 (perigee-syzygy-perhelion-lunistice!)
These colorful photographs, a tidepool teeming with life. You make me want to go out there, to explore, to feel the sensation of sand and water.
Yes, to tide pool - a much needed verb in the year ready to be shelved.
What amazing life in those pools. I’m so grateful that you balance your fear and longing to visit this miraculous place. Thank you for sharing the beauty I’d never know about otherwise.