On The Beach

Article Tools

Image Gallery

Print

E-mail

Comments

RSS

Really, you can believe whatever you like. Whatever answer you, give to questions about the sense and significance of life will be guesses. You can never prove, anything. So why bother to guess?

I was ready to go in. My legs were stiff. The fish had stopped biting. From the look of the beach, the surf was rising. It was best to go in at slack tide . . . but I had forgotten to check the tide tables. I packed away my sack of fish, my tackle box, bang stick, gaff, and the lower part of my fishing pole, closed the door of my watertight bulkhead, and started for the beach.

When coming In, always be ready for a wipeout. Have no loose gear in the boat. Put your watch in a waterproof pocket, take off your sunglasses, and pick up the rhythm of the waves. I shifted into a kneeling position and waited just behind the surf line. It was important to keep one's cool . . . and to time things properly. There were two schools of thought about landing a boat through surf. One, the heroic school, said pick the biggest wave and ride it all the way up the beach. This was fine If you balanced just behind the crest of the wave, but if you got too far ahead you'd get pitchpoled, and if you were too far behind you would be swept back by the undertow and the next wave would roll you. I preferred the cautious school . . . which said wait out the big ones and come in during a quiet spell.

I waited. A series of big ones lifted me high in the air and crashed on the beach in a welter of creamy foam. The quiet spell was a long time coming. The surf had' really risen since the early morning. Some far-off storm, presumably. One had to be patient. Wait.

Finally things calmed down a bit and I glanced over my shoulder. Never start in without checking what's coming up behind you. No big ones in sight. I picked up the crest of the next wave and swooshed toward the beach. A little too far forward . . . but the keel did its work and the boat was not sideswiped. I jumped out fast. Small Porgy was swept back by the undertow and took a breaker over the stern. but I had her safely by the bowline attached to my paddle, hauled her up the beach, bailed out the water.

I carried my gear up the beach, placed Small Porgy well out of reach of the ocean, sat down, and ate my lunch. The ocean was beautiful-a dreamy blue-but the surf was heavy and becoming heavier. I had come in not a moment too soon.

I gazed gratefully at the ocean. It was so enormous and my boat was so very small. It could crush me as easily as I could swat a fly. But it hadn't. It had let me sneak out, get my fish, and return with nothing worse than a wetting. What a teacher it was! How much better than the human teachers with their endless talk about higher consciousness and the sense and significance of life and of man. The ocean did not talk of higher consciousness. But woe betide those who did not watch what they were doing, who came to or went out carelessly through the surf, who failed to watch out for the rising of the wind.

RSS | Comments | E-mail | Print