It's Time To Migrate

Herring, small silvery fish, live in our shallow South Coast waters and swim in schools. Traveling upriver to spawn in early May, they are visible at a nearby dam, as they jump from the freshwater reservoir into the brackish water that winds through the estuary and out to sea. Every year I look forward to their arrival and count on their return. Nature’s ancient call lures them here, and I understand the summons.

Every year around the same time I feel a similar urge to relocate myself. Throughout the long winter months, I am landlocked and content to occasionally visit the seashore. But come May I can no longer endure the long-distance relationship, and thoughts of my seaside home consume me.

I listen to weekend weather reports with new interest. I toss barbecue sauce, magazines, suntan lotion and bug spray into the grocery cart. I spend hours in the library, reading book jackets of contemporary fiction and checking out a stack of books. I reread favorite parts of my annotated copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden and The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett. I start making lists of summer things to do. I let everyone know that I will be unavailable on weekends for the next three months.

Then one May morning dawns that justifies the advance preparation. I open the trunk of the car and pile in all those books and magazines, bags of groceries, sweatshirts, t-shirts, shorts and swimsuits, and I get behind the wheel and satisfy the longing.

After a half-hour drive through the pine-studded lanes of Freetown, along the highway that bisects the old mill city of Fall River and into Tiverton, the river looms on my right. I pass by the Sakonnet River Bridge, where cars line the span heading to and from Portsmouth, Middletown and Newport.

Following the road that wends through the small village, I come upon the curiosity that is Stone Bridge. During the onslaught of the 1938 hurricane, one of the worst to ever breach these shores, hurricane-force winds and waves took out the bridge. All that remains is two stone sections that are still attached to land, one on the Tiverton side, the other on the opposite shore in Portsmouth.

A low stone wall now separates the road from the sea. Approaching the Nannaquaket Bridge, I notice a few fishermen casting over the side. Flounder are the most common springtime catch, although nibbles this far inland are a rarity. Once I pass Nannaquaket pond, I can no longer see the river, but I know it’s always there – beyond the houses, trees and salt marshes, winding its way with me toward Fogland.

I turn right on Pond Bridge Road and inhale the familiar earthy scent of freshly tilled soil and sea. Sandwiched between the sparkling fresh water of the reservoir, the brackish water of the salt marshes and the ocean waters beyond are the fields of Ferolbink Farms.

I drive slowly past the dam and park. Getting out of the car, I watch fishermen cast their lines into the water at the base of the dam, where schools of silver herring jump and splash in the stream. Most of the buckets are already full of the morning’s catch.

Returning to the car, I drive up the hill and round the hairpin turn that leads to Fogland State Beach. This is the site of Almy’s Ferry, where hundreds of years ago passengers were transported between Fogland Point and The Glen in Portsmouth. A few cars are parked at the beach, and there are families dressed in spring jackets and jeans rambling along the shore. A powerboat is being hoisted out of the water at the ramp.

Taking a left onto High Hill Road, I am on the last leg of the journey. On one side of the street, there are fields and on the other private lanes that lead to homes that hug the coastline. I come to the end of the road, shut off the engine and gaze at the private beach that my family has held deeded beach rights to since 1969. I am no longer a fish out of water. I am home.

ABOUT SEA, SKY & SPIRIT: Drawing from the many seasonal faces of Fogland, Linda Andrade Rodrigues paints vignettes about nature and spirituality.