Fishing

Kelp heads bob among the rolling breakers of the foggy cove. A spiffy scenic-route-sign seagull preens on the wet sand to my right, casting furtive lunch-seeking glances my way.

Mike is standing on a medium-sized, irregular boulder to my right, which overhangs a shallow, turbulent area of the surf zone that is free of kelp. This is where he hopes the rockfish will be waiting, poised attentively on fin-tips, watching for his bait of chopped frozen squid to drop.

There is a light, cool wind and a crush and rumble of surf. The sun is casting a weak light through the scrim of fog that makes it bright enough for sunglasses.

He is still preparing his bait. Seagull still equidistant between us, in case there is food in the near future.

This little rocky cove is infinite in its possibilities. To my left, the fine lace of a dessicated leaf, left strung together by its intricate vasculature, sits amid a pile of shredded plant material: lacy, golden leaves, delicate fern-like fragments, waxy, long, narrow strips of seagrass, a sinewy tendon of kelp, wisps of feathery, Seussian moss, all captured by a softly waving hand of dried kelp whose end is lodged-- or planted-- under a rock on this sometimes submerged beach.

The sand, a mix of tiny pebbles reluctantly yielding to sand, really, is gilded and strewn with this tinsel of the land and sea. The leaves are most remarkable.

The sun may burn through to this little cove today, or it may not.

He stands patiently atop his rock, shifting his weight... Hey! He's caught a fish! A nice, big one. Looks to be a surf perch from here.

Seagull keenly observes from above, but no fish guts are on the offer this round. Mr. Perch is thrown right back in as the sky shows patches of blue through the fog. The perch are mild-flavored, fine-textured fish, pleasant enough to eat, but we have the luxury of choosing not to. Or, he was simply too small.

He prepares another baited hook and casts again, resuming his alternating stance in the saddle of the boulder.

The fog recedes further.

Crows and seagulls cross paths overhead as they commute to daytime stations. Misty clouds zoom southwards, but the distant fog seems to be growing and advancing.

After the first fish slaps back into the ocean, he and I communicate via matching baby claps to signal, "Yay! You caught a fish!" I approve with quick taps of my fingertips, "Yay!" "Mr. Fish goes free!" he claps. "Yay!" I answer. And on we go.

The wind is more gusty now, as the land behind heats and the air rises.

Reeling, reeling in... is it kelp, or nothing, or another fish? The latter. Almost looks like he caught the same one, only just a little smaller. And back in she goes.

More bait, more casting, more standing. We've been here an hour. Two fish: not bad.

I think I'd rather read a book than write one. Because, well, dialogue, for one thing. How do you make conversations purposeful, intentional, serve the end of what needs to happen, when in reality they are clumsy, haphazard, awkward and frequently pointless?

He straddles the front crest of the big rock now, for a different angle on the shallows, looking like he's riding behind the ears of a giant hunchbacked toad. He flings his lure with intent and gusto but reels it right back in and shakes his head at me.

The sea here dances with a range of blues, browns and greens, fringed with a rustle of white.

Reeling, reeling....kelp!

Each time the sun burns through the mist, the colors reveal themselves in its light. I have completely lost feeling in my rear end and also have to pee.

How was it that there was no warning of the tsunami in Indonesia? Although, to be fair, I know that when a tsunami warning was issued in Santa Cruz in college, we responded not by loading our loved ones in the car and heading for higher ground, but by filling our stomachs with beer and making for the cliffs. So it may not have helped at all.

At least one person and one dog have been here already today. The person's footsteps, still clearly impressed, a purposeful segment from one area to another, the dog's a joyful, erratic tangent of punctuation marks through the sand.