I spent a good deal of my childhood peering into tide pools. Poised above the water, barnacles pressed into the skin of my knees as I surveyed the bustling cities below. I remember holding my breath, rapt with attention. Lost in the parallel universe of crabs and whelks and luminous anemones. A tangle of alternate realities, unfurling before me.
Tide pool reefs are scattered throughout our coastlines, tucked within the folds of craggy shores and rocky outcroppings. In Northern California where I grew up, tide pool reefs are particularly abundant, providing a ready-made portal into another world. Last year I volunteered as an educator at one such reef : the Duxbury Reef State Marine Conservation Area. A stretch of tide pools on the coast of Bolinas, just north of San Francisco. A few times a month I’d don my vest, my pocket loupe, and my field guide, and pretend to be an extrovert as I taught reef-goers about tide pool ecology - the species that live on the reef, and the measures that local conservationists are taking to protect them. Duxbury is one of the largest shale reefs in North America. It’s composed of Monterey shale - a type of rock formed in the Miocene Epoch, a period spanning 5-25 million years ago. And like all coastlines, it’s considered an intertidal zone : the point where land meets sea. A place whose margins are perpetually in flux, drawn and redrawn by the wrack lines of the ebbing tide.
This ambiguous boundary isn’t beholden to intertidal zones. In fact, there’s a name for these liminal habitats : ecotones. The point where two distinct environments steep into one another, softening the lines between the perimeters of containment. Like most things that humans try to categorize, there’s a gradient of experience between the binary. Marshlands between wet and dry, grasslands between forest and desert, estuaries between saltwater and freshwater. Even the word ecotone encapsulates this bothness - derived from the Greek words oikos which means house, and tonos which means tension. The tension of two places existing at once.
There’s nowhere more characteristic of this tension than rocky intertidal reefs. Reefs like Duxbury, where the pendulum of the tide delivers an onslaught of challenges for its inhabitants - from thrashing waves and abrasive sand, to perpetually shifting levels in temperature, salinity, and oxygen. To exist in the rocky intertidal requires a capacity for extremes. A set of adaptations designed to endure the wrath of our celestial rhythms. These adaptations are coded within the structure and behavior of every tide pool creature - from the flat shell of the crab, wedging itself between the rocks, to the adhesive foot of the anemone. Adaptations all rooted in the simple yet essential act of….well, rooting. The ability to hold on to the rock in order to withstand the environment. The capacity to create a home within the tension.
The mussel is one such creature - an olympic champion of holding on. If you’ve ever cooked a pot of mussels, you’ve likely noticed the hair-like fibers growing out their side, commonly referred to as the mussel’s beard or byssus. This “beard” is composed of a bundle of filaments called byssal threads which the mussel uses to anchor itself to the rock. These byssus are made of tendon-like proteins, and are simultaneously hard yet elastic in order to withstand the turbulence. Several other species of mollusks also produce a beard, including the pen clam - a giant Mediterranean bivalve whose long byssal threads were historically used to weave a precious cloth called sea silk or byssus cloth. A light golden fabric reserved for royalty. In fact, the word byssus is derived from Greek, for a fine yellowish flax and the linen woven from it.
Another master-latcher is the barnacle, who blankets the reef - making itself at home on every available surface, from the backs of mussels to the bellies of whales. Although it also has a shell, the barnacle is actually a crustacean, like a shrimp or a crab. Barnacles produce a fast-drying adhesive to latch to the rock. A glue that’s so strong and water-repellant that it can hold up to 60 pounds per square inch. Scientists have been studying this cement-like adhesive for its strength and water-repellent properties, and it’s already been used to develop advancements in bio-medicine such as this blood-repelling tissue glue, used to seal wounds in strenuous conditions.
Last but not least, seaweed, one of my favorite intertidal life forms. Seaweed is like the plant life of the reef, but instead of a root system, it has a holdfast: a claw-like mechanism that anchors itself to the rock, grounding in place as the fronds stretch towards the light. At Duxbury, tangles of bull kelp bake in the sun like large knots of rope - traces of the kelp forests lining the Pacific Coast. Occasionally you can see these root-like holdfasts still attached to a rock, dislodged from the ocean floor. These kelp forests play a vital role in the intertidal ecosystem by providing habitat to a wide array of species like fish and invertebrates. Even sea otters will wrap themselves in the floating kelp fronds, tethering in place so as to drift off to sleep without drifting off to sea. The term holdfast stems back to the Dutch, where the words “houd vast” or “hold tight” were a command given to sailors at the onset of a storm. A warning call to grip the ship’s rigging to prevent being washed overboard. Because of this, the phrase HOLD FAST is a historic maritime tattoo, written across a sailor’s knuckles as a talisman to ward off the perils of the sea.
It makes sense that I’ve been drawn to species that are good at holding on, as the past year has felt marked by my own struggle to let go. Working as a self employed commercial artist comes with its requisite highs and lows, but many months of lost jobs, and many years of compromised wages, has me reexamining my own threshold of professional resiliency. As a society, we champion the ability to hold on. To affix to our goals with an unyielding grip. Celebrating the houd vast of our endurance. But no one teaches us when we may be holding on for the wrong reasons. Or when, however painful, it may be time to let go. To consider what lies beyond the grasping.
Last month I gave an artist talk at NIAD, an art center in Richmond CA for adults with developmental disabilities. I was scheduled to talk for an hour, so I pieced together a slide deck that traced the chronology of my art practice, highlighting the experiences that have shaped my path over the years. As I sifted through the digital archive of my 20’s, it became clear that my most formative experiences over the past decade haven’t been the gallery shows, the residencies, or the big commercial gigs, but the gaps between them. The bouts of time working odd jobs - in kitchens and farms, traveling alone, living in remote places, feeling lost and uncomfortable. Periods in my life formed by the losses, the endings, the ‘failures”. The points that I’ve wanted to look at the least, but that evidently, have informed me and my creativity the most. The ecotones that have gradated the milestones.
The plants and animals that live in ecotones are called edge species. As the boundaries of two habitats slip together, there’s a flurry of life in the overlay. Like the mussels and barnacles, these species are equipped to thrive within a wider array of conditions, and are therefore more resilient, more adapted, and more biodiverse. This is called the edge effect. And if you look closely, you can see it playing out all around us. On the reefs, the estuaries, and the grasslands, but also in our human world. The artists, poets, trans folk, writers, teachers, farmers, and dancers. People inhabiting the in-between, crafting new and ever-more creative forms of aliveness. Getting to talk at NIAD was an honor, in part because the artist there are so talented. But also because they encapsulate this creative resiliency that is at once so inspiring and life-giving. Folks whose art practices are shimmering in every direction, often stretching beyond definition or containment.
As I wade through the depths of my own ecotone, I’m equipped with the truth that all of us, regardless of life stage or job status, are poised between multiple places at once. Occupying the thresholds between relationships, identity, and time. Between political candidates, technological paradigms, and environmental catastrophes. I turned 30 this month, and as I pass through the doorway of a new decade, I look to the holdfast. Not as a model of white-knuckling the turbulence of life. But as a both/and. A simultaneous process in anchoring in the bedrock of our values, while trusting the ebb of change. The reality that sometimes, we’re just gonna get thrashed. This anchoring looks different for all of us as it aligns with our priorities. But for me, it means upholding my curiosity and protecting my attention. Shedding those brittle, outdated models of success. And trusting in my own form of creative resiliency - be it holding on, letting go, or somewhere in between.
Perhaps true resiliency isn’t the refusal to let go, but the courage to loosen our grip, if even just a little. To soften into the unknown. To make a home within the tension.
Happy tide pooling,
Tess
I’ve been promising to restock these bumper stickers for a long time. Thanks to everyone for your patience. I threw in a new one for all my VIPs :) Click here to purchase.
One of the bright spots of this year has been working with Smithereen Farm in Pembroke Maine, and their adjoining non-profit Greenhorns. Thanks to Severine for building such a cool world, and to Nicole Lavelle for ushering me into it and being an amazing art director. Nicole has a newsletter called Piles that’s definitely worth a read. Here are a couple recent illustrations for Smithereen, with some of the seaweed that they sustainably harvest on the Maine coast.
My partner Tom makes extra nice clothes and bags under the name Vernacular. His newest release is the Ebb fleece - a super light mock-neck that just so happens to be very on-theme this month. Head over here to scope them out.
I've always loved Duxbury reef and the surrounding beaches, but this letter offers so much more understanding to ground my love. I'm touched by the sense of awe and thoughtfulness and attention that is radiates from each of your written and drawn reflections. Thank you!
solace