The King Tide comes to conquer. Amid fury, foam and thunderous claps, its forces roar on shore and devour everything in their path. White-fringed waves swirl across jetties, smash against cliffs, engulf beaches, inundate mudflats, pummel piers. The unstoppable invader extends its watery domain so high that it seems to be creating the world anew.
Declaring victory, the King departs in solemn procession, revealing the transformation it has wrought: logs tossed like twigs on the shore, tangles of seaweed, sand gouged from coves, fields and roads flooded. The beach where the ocean pranced shimmers like a vast mirror reflecting a silvery sky. Spray-slick rocks gleam like ancient monuments silhouetted against the sun. With a final flourish, the King pulls back its cape to reveal an underwater realm rarely touched by air and light, a window into the secrets of the deep. Time itself seems suspended in a fleeting moment of stillness between ebb and flow.
In Northern California, the Kings — the highest and lowest tides of the year — arrive in winter. From high ground, we terrestrials look down and marvel at the dazzling crescendo of surf and salt, but the choreography comes from a celestial dance far above us.
Since a time older than humankind, the tides have risen and fallen to the tango of the moon and the sun. Each month the new and full moons align with the earth, triggering a higher-than-usual “spring” tide. When this assignation coincides with the moon’s perigee (when it’s closest to earth) and earth’s perihelion (when it’s nearest the sun), their combined gravitational tug magnifies the tide’s height. Fierce winds or an atmospheric river barreling across the ocean further intensify a King Tide, heaving its unleashed waters up and over the usual borders.
As the globe warms and sea levels rise, more coastal communities are grappling with king-sized tides. Some are constructing sea walls and installing bigger pump stations. Others are trying nature-based solutions, such as restoring wetlands to absorb wave energy. High-risk areas are opting for managed retreats, the strategic relocation of businesses and homes to safer sites. To aid planning for the future, programs such as the California King Tides Project are inviting citizens to document the impact of King Tides through photographs and personal observations.
While I applaud these well-intentioned efforts, I also think of another king: Canute, who ruled over England, Denmark and Norway in the 11th century. In a famous legend, he set his throne upon the shore and ordered the incoming waves to halt. The impervious tide defied his command.
This story might seem a cautionary tale about a despot’s arrogance. But historians depict Canute as a wise and pious ruler, well-aware of the ocean’s intractability, who wanted to teach humility and the limits of human dominion to his people. Returning from the shore, Canute set his crown on an altar as testimony to God’s supreme power. Never again did he place it on his head.
The King Tides, in all their power and glory, remind us of this lesson. No wall of concrete, no feat of engineering, no triumph of technology can halt the surge of the restless sea. The Kings will reign, as they always have. Our challenge, as tenants on a blue planet, is to find ways to adapt and co-exist in the world they are reshaping.
