Bayside Todd once prided himself on his bona fide ability to read the tides. Occasionally, this referred to his baffling habit of interpreting spilled Tide detergent patterns on laundry as though they were tea leaves, random yet wise. More often, he watched the moon persuade the ocean to fall and rise. One Tuesday, however, the tide refused to be read. Todd tried. But the tide defied. The townspeople of Bayside had long relied on Todd’s printed tide guides, which he titled Bayside Todd’s Bayside Tide Guide.

“The tide has turned,” Sally, a local seashell monger, observed. “It’s merely a little untidy today,” Todd insisted, his reliability dented by the tide’s wide stride inland. Todd stood aside, listening to his favorite tune, Vance Joy’s “Riptide,” as the tide occupied his carefully diagrammed shoreline. He removed soaked guides from his coat pocket. The ink had liquefied. His forecasts had died. The mayor, Mayor McBride (who had run on a platform of civic pride and maritime guidelines), confronted Todd at high tide. “You told us the tide would bide,” the mayor cried. Todd sighed. “I qualified that it might intensify.” And the tide, wide-eyed and untried, simply replied with a further climb. By eventide, even his pride had dried. Todd’s record, once colorfast and coastal-certified, now bore a stubborn stain no Tide Pod could subside.

The town survived, though only after relocating slightly higher up the seaside. Bayside is now known as Slightly-Higher-Bayside. Todd still writes tide guides. He titles them modestly now: I Tried.