Just about every time we take I-95 south to Boston, a particular experience comes to my mind while crossing the Merrimack River. I look out from the bridge, hoping to see whether the tide’s in or out.
But that’s not how it was when I first moved to New England.
On one warm evening, while driving with a girlfriend along the river just beyond the bend we can see from the bridge, I found a place to pull over. The water was low, with many steppingstones exposed. We couldn’t resist walking way out from shore and back again, but when we turned around, all of the stones where we’d been were now submerged.
It was a close call. As I now know.
Jnana's Red Barn 