The last day of any walk is marked by something akin to awe and anticipation of the joy of arriving, of resting, of having done the hard thing you set out to do. For me, it also brings a hint of melancholy as we reach the parting point for this particular journey with these particular wanderers.
For the first time in seven days of walking, the sun greeted us as we set out. And it stayed with us, giving us blue skies over empty hey fields, peeking through stands of silver birch and scots pine, and eventually shining down through seaside farmland to the North Sea.
In less than two hours, we arrived at the causeway that takes cars and walkers from the mainland to Lindisfarne once the ocean has receded and the road is clear of water. There are only certain hours of each day when it is safe to use the causeway–many people certain that their car would best the incoming tide have regretted their bravado and stupidity.
Using the causeway is one way to access the island on foot. The other, known as the Pilgrim's Way, takes you across the sands when the water is out, guided by a line of poles that mark the way to the island. Traditionally, those who take the Pilgram's Way do so barefoot, emulating the Saints for whom the island is famous, St. Cuthbert and St. Aidan (below).
As the causeway opened to traffic and walkers, my friends and I looked eagerly at the sands. The water looked high, although I could see exposed sand rising several hundred yards from the road. I climbed the roadside safety tower to survey the distance. My intuition told me to use the road to cross and save the sand crossing for the following morning when the tide would be furthest out–we could walk the sand in both directions—and I suggested this to the group.
Still, there is a pull to finishing a pilgrimage as intended, and I could feel some disappointment at the suggestion of a road crossing. I decided to compromise and offered:
"I'll go out to the sand, and if it feels safe, I'll wave you over."
I removed my boots and splashed through shin-high water but quickly reached the sand. Looking forward, it appeared to be clear sand all the way to the island, so I waved the group over.
Frolicking. Free. Happy. Joyful. Unburdened. Unbound. Unblocked. These words came to me as I watched the four barefoot women march across the wide expanse of sand and mud, the grains oozing through their toes and a strong wind blowing their hair in all directions. To be walking in the ocean. As one later said, "I sort of reminds you of the story of Moses parting the seas."
There was joking and talking. The distance between us tightened and spread out as we read each other's bodies, deciding if the other needed private space to experience the moment fully.
When I walk this way, I look for birds on the sand. If they are sitting on the sand, the sand is likely safe to walk on. So I look forward and watch for birds. The crossing is three miles. It's a lot of sand. There are two safety towers near the beginning of the crossing, but none beyond the mid-point. As I looked forward, I saw birds sitting far ahead of me, but I also saw white crests, and I wasn't sure if they were gulls or waves, so I sped up and put a reasonable distance between myself and the others. I wanted to be far enough ahead that if there was trouble, I could wave them back and not be caught with five people in crisis.
Eventually, about 3/4 miles from shore, I realized the water was covering my ankles again. I decided if it reached my knee, I would turn back and guide the group back to the causeway. I took two more steps, and the ground beneath me disappeared, and I was dragged out and away from the poles by rushing water. When I finally regained footing, the water was up to my neck, and I'd been pushed a distance of two poles from where I stepped down. I grabbed the third pull before the water could push me further, grabbed my phone out of the upper coat pocket (it was miraculously dry), and, holding the poll, texted the group to STOP. GO BACK.
I waved my arms, and they got the message. They all stopped. As much as I hate SIRI on my iPhone, she was my best friend for those few minutes. I asked SIRI to call 999—the United Kingdom equivalent to 911. I was immediately put in touch with the Coast Guard. I urged them to pick up my four fellow walkers, as I wasn't sure if they could reach the causeway without hitting the water. With my phone held above my head, I stayed on the line with the Coast Guard and, inch by inch, slowly, pushed through the surging tide from pole to pole until I reached the island.
The police and Coast Guard came and assured me the others were alright. I told them I didn't need an ambulance, but that message didn't reach the dispatchers. I heard the wailing sound rise above the island like a gull on the sea breeze.
Here's what I didn't know. While I knew my friends were safe, the emergency workers failed to tell them I was safe. They saw me go down in the water. Then they heard an ambulance. For one traumatizing hour, they thought I was either injured or dead.
How I wish I could take those two hours back for them.
And for myself. Standing midway between where I went into the water and where I called 999, I SIRI texted my family. "If anything happens to me, please know I love you beyond measure."
For those few harrowing minutes, I felt sure this was where I would finally lay down and float forever. It wasn't a scary thought—more of a wonder. Here, on a pilgrimage, I would let go. The cold water suddenly felt warm. My shaking stopped. I felt a split second of peace.
And then I felt the agony of children, even grown children, losing their mother. I know that pain, having entered into it six months ago when my mother died. Even at 57 years old, her leaving burned and continues to smolder and flame in many ways.
The water became cold again, and I heard a voice in my heart whisper, "Not now."
So I walked through the water. In its way, it parted for me. It did not pull me under or push me further out to sea. It surrounded me like a marshall of guards and delivered me to the shore.
Insight or hindsight. Sometimes, it's hard to know which holds the truth.
Since that day, the scene has returned to me in dreams and meditations. I am always looking for lessons. I know they are everywhere you want to see them, and I've wanted to understand the lesson in this moment.
Of course, there's the obvious one: Your first thought is often the best; trust it.
There's the practical one: If you are walking St. Cuthbert's Way, always follow the advice of island experts, and don't use the Pilgrims Way for at least three hours after the causeway opens.
But then there's the heart lesson. And I think it is this for me:
Yes, I was the "leader" of this merry band of walkers. I led them to a path, and I hope I led them toward new writing. I know I encouraged them over mountains and moors, and I led them across a mile or two of sand toward a priceless accomplishment.
However, one can only lead others so far without first understanding what it is to be led. I was so bound up in trying to facilitate their positive experience that I lost some of my own. On this last day, I was so caught up in safely leading them across the sand that I didn't question enough the danger to myself. I am glad I went far ahead of them to test those waters, but I can't help but think about the what ifs. What if four other women slipped into the tide with me?
I didn't listen to the wind. Had I listened, I would have heard it say it had switched directions, bringing in the water.
I didn't listen to the water. Had I listened, I would have turned around when I saw a white cap, no matter how small, rather than wading in and "checking."
I didn't listen to my intuition. Had I listened, I would have heeded that voice from a cosmos more knowing and further seeing than my singular limited wisdom as it whispered toward the road, "This way."
The lesson for me then: Which leader do I most need to be?
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