The Tide Pool Guide – Part 1: Low Tide

"It's not a starfish," said the man behind her. "It's a sea star."

Linda closed her eyes. She was sixty, a retired librarian from Portland, six weeks into volunteering as a tide-pool guide at Cannon Beach, in a bright yellow vest and a rain hat. A dozen tourists stood around her, peering into a rock pool. Behind her stood a tall, weathered man with a white beard, a long grey ponytail and an irritatingly gentle voice.

"Sea star," she repeated, through her teeth.

"They're not fish."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She was getting used to him. Gordon was sixty-four, a retired marine biologist who walked the beach every low tide with a notebook and a small magnifying glass. He had no official role. He simply turned up, and gently corrected her.

"Tell them about the anemone," he whispered.

"I know about the anemone."

"They close when you touch them."

"I know."

The tourists were delighted. After the tour, she turned on him.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

"I mean, do you mind not doing that."

"I could stop." He considered. "But you'd miss it."

She opened her mouth to say she wouldn't. Then she thought about the last six weeks. How her mornings now began with the thought: Will he be there?

"Perhaps a bit," said Linda.

He smiled. It transformed his whole face. "Walk with me?"

They walked the long wet sand at low tide, the Pacific heaving beyond, the great haystack rock rising from the surf. He showed her creatures she'd never noticed: a nudibranch like a jewel, a hermit crab in a periwinkle shell, a pale pink urchin. She took notes. He took her arm over the slippery bits.

"Can I ask you something?" said Linda.

"Yes."

"Why do you correct me?"

"Because I'd like you to be right," said Gordon, "and I'd like to stand next to you while you are."

"Green?" she said, a word from the seaweed.

"Green," said Gordon, delighted. "Very green. The tide is out."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Minus Tide.