For whatever reason (do I need a reason?), I drove out to Third Beach the other day. I hadn't been there in a while. I tend to forget about it, actually, as I don't see it in my daily travels — as I do First and Second Beaches (what's the deal with these numbered beaches, anyway?) — tucked as it is around the corner of the Sakonnet, in the lee of Sachuest Point. But I like how that grassy, duney tangle of roads (such bumpy roads) transports you/me/anyone to some other place, some other beach, somewhere else (anywhere else). And looking across toward the gently sloping patchwork of Little Compton is always pleasant ... peaceful .... even or especially at low-tide ... and then, suddenly, as I stood there at the base of the boat ramp, my goal (where do such worthy goals spring from?) became to visit Crab Town (now there's a descriptive name, full of hermit crabs, among others, as it is) at the farfar end of the beach. So I set off; it's not too far, relatively speaking. But I never made it, as that insignificant-yet-HUGELY-significant rushing stream/river/outpouring of tidal waters (note to self: look up the proper name of that river/rivulet, would you?) stopped me in my tracks. In the summer, of course, I'd have waded. Or jumped. If I missed, no big deal. But in February, falling even a tiny bit short might result in very cold feet. Thus thwarted (how absurd!), I stood there for a minute or two with my arms folded, my scarf blowing in the breeze — feeling rather crabby indeed — then turned and headed back to the car.
