The Fisherman
What is it that draws us to the oceans?
It’s been stormy the past few days, rain dampening the rocky terrain causing it to be a bit more treacherous than usual. Not today. The sun, as it often does, lights my path along one of the most rugged, awe-inspiring coasts I’ve had the pleasure of negotiating. My destination, a bench purportedly situated on an outcropping not visible from where I set off.
It’s near impossible to put into words the raw beauty of this incomparable creation. What it must have been like eons ago as nature took its course laying down these varied formations, the relentless tides constantly stamping its mark, attacking the more vulnerable sandstone, reshaping the landscape.
My chosen path, not really I’m just heading in the general direction, cuts high above the ocean one after another vista unfolding before me. Not much time spent admiring, a few pics as I just can’t help myself, I press on, I have a rendezvous.
The bay is huge, from my side the beach runs at a ninety-degree angle. A newly installed fence of little concern, easily circumvented as I reach the turn from the rocky shelves the vast, desolate, sandy beaches inviting me down, sixty feet or more down. As I make my way along the ridge I scout for a manageable path. I see, what at first looks like horse prints, in the sand leading to the beach. Again I imagine what it was once like, the beach having been way up here, seashells the telltale sign.
It’s pretty warm but I’ll wait till I get to the bench before breaking out the water. I trudge along moving closer to the foaming tide taking advantage of the firmer sand, occasionally having to dance away from an encroaching wave. Is it me doing the encroaching?
Mounting the first of the outcroppings I stand admiring the views, no bench as yet. I do see other humans some of whom have made their way down in their 4-wheelers, necessary as the paths are beach sand. They have no intention of finding their way down to the shore, soon back in their vehicles leaving nothing but tire tracks.
There are a couple more outcroppings, sadly no bench to be found so I sit on a rock resembling a seat, gulp down some water while using a chunk of sandstone to smooth the handle of a stick I’d found along the way again reminded of how those before might have dealt with issues pre WalMart.
It’s been close to two hours, time to head back when I see, on the first of the outcroppings, a man. It’s a bit of a distance off but by all appearances, he has a fishing rod in his hand about to cast off.
Fishing would seem to be a rather meditative endeavor even as waves ceaselessly pound around him slowly eroding the soft underbelly. How soon will his chosen spot, a lone bastion, succumb like all that once accompanied it?
I decide not to disturb him although he’s not entirely alone, a lone gull patiently waits, ever hopeful.
