Tweet
I set out on a recent evening with a very specific goal. I hoped to replicate success I had on a recent fishing trip. There was a finite window within which to execute my plan. It was my intention to target larger fish in thin water on a rising tide at dusk. The cove I sought out was sheltered from the residual winds that lingered about from the tail end of tropical storm Hermine.
I was excited by the potential of whatever was to happen. To me, the mystery is the magic of fishing - that at any moment, something unseen can take my line and swim for the horizon.
As I slipped my kayak into the still waters, I could sense it would be a magical night, whether or not I caught fish. The light was already low and the first hints of the pending sunset where presenting themselves to anyone who cared to take notice.
While I hoped for the best (as all fisherman do…), I knew I would be content to be in that time and space with whatever happened. Catching fish was the objective, but certain circumstances can sometimes make that priority fade into the ether.
As day slipped into night, I fell into the Zen-like rhythm of cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve. Since I was content to allow the moments be whatever they were going to be, I started to notice that the gods had chosen a pastel palate from which to paint tonight’s slow motion sunset. The high cirrus clouds refracted evolving hues of pinks, oranges and yellows, which in turn, reflected on the rippled surface of the water - like a child dancing in their favorite costume.
As this nightly ritual revealed itself, a quintet of Snowy Egrets flew over, low and slow, as they sought out their nocturnal rousts. Bald Eagles traversed the air space with majestic grace, declaring their position in the natural order and Ospreys glided inches above the surface of the water with the ease that can only be born of evolutionary perfection. In the distance, a gaggle of Canada Geese serenaded all within ear shot with their raucous calls of conformity and common purpose.
As the heavens turned down the day’s dimmer switch, the water came alive with its telltale popping of feeding fish. Ripples danced through the moon glow on the water’s surface that had replaced the colors of the evening, providing visual confirmation of the aquatic inhabitants in the area.
Sadly, the surround-sound, acoustical evidence revealed that the quarry I heard were all small and not overly exciting. My results confirmed it. Had I only been intent on my fishing scorecard, I would have been sorely disappointed with the evening’s catch. More importantly, I would have been tragically unaware of the universal masterpiece that was being performed for an audience of one. It was a mystical Soliloquy of Solitude I shall not soon forget.
When I was younger, my father used to spend countless hours sailing by himself on Huntington Bay. He was clearly at peace with everything when he did it. My mother described his time on the water as “when he spoke to God”. I shrugged off such statements with little appreciation of their meaning. While I still have no clue as to who or what God is, I’ve come to appreciate the concept fully. I find myself doing the same thing, just with a paddle and fishing rod instead of a tiller and sheet.
In our world of twisted values, madness and mayhem, my simple hope is that anyone reading this can, at times, stop long enough to pay attention to the bigger picture. The one that transcends borders, language barriers and skin tone and listen to what it has to say to each of us. There is perfection in everyone’s unique message. If more people would stop and open themselves, I believe the world would be a better place….
Tight lines, everyone….
I was excited by the potential of whatever was to happen. To me, the mystery is the magic of fishing - that at any moment, something unseen can take my line and swim for the horizon.
As I slipped my kayak into the still waters, I could sense it would be a magical night, whether or not I caught fish. The light was already low and the first hints of the pending sunset where presenting themselves to anyone who cared to take notice.
While I hoped for the best (as all fisherman do…), I knew I would be content to be in that time and space with whatever happened. Catching fish was the objective, but certain circumstances can sometimes make that priority fade into the ether.
As day slipped into night, I fell into the Zen-like rhythm of cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve. Since I was content to allow the moments be whatever they were going to be, I started to notice that the gods had chosen a pastel palate from which to paint tonight’s slow motion sunset. The high cirrus clouds refracted evolving hues of pinks, oranges and yellows, which in turn, reflected on the rippled surface of the water - like a child dancing in their favorite costume.
As this nightly ritual revealed itself, a quintet of Snowy Egrets flew over, low and slow, as they sought out their nocturnal rousts. Bald Eagles traversed the air space with majestic grace, declaring their position in the natural order and Ospreys glided inches above the surface of the water with the ease that can only be born of evolutionary perfection. In the distance, a gaggle of Canada Geese serenaded all within ear shot with their raucous calls of conformity and common purpose.
As the heavens turned down the day’s dimmer switch, the water came alive with its telltale popping of feeding fish. Ripples danced through the moon glow on the water’s surface that had replaced the colors of the evening, providing visual confirmation of the aquatic inhabitants in the area.
Sadly, the surround-sound, acoustical evidence revealed that the quarry I heard were all small and not overly exciting. My results confirmed it. Had I only been intent on my fishing scorecard, I would have been sorely disappointed with the evening’s catch. More importantly, I would have been tragically unaware of the universal masterpiece that was being performed for an audience of one. It was a mystical Soliloquy of Solitude I shall not soon forget.
When I was younger, my father used to spend countless hours sailing by himself on Huntington Bay. He was clearly at peace with everything when he did it. My mother described his time on the water as “when he spoke to God”. I shrugged off such statements with little appreciation of their meaning. While I still have no clue as to who or what God is, I’ve come to appreciate the concept fully. I find myself doing the same thing, just with a paddle and fishing rod instead of a tiller and sheet.
In our world of twisted values, madness and mayhem, my simple hope is that anyone reading this can, at times, stop long enough to pay attention to the bigger picture. The one that transcends borders, language barriers and skin tone and listen to what it has to say to each of us. There is perfection in everyone’s unique message. If more people would stop and open themselves, I believe the world would be a better place….
Tight lines, everyone….
I explored a quiet cove yesterday I did not know was at inigoes and had that feeling as me and a slew of Bald eagles eyed each other
Comment