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petermarcusRead or pass at will...this is part II.
I bummed around the island looking for boats to rent. The only ones available were little rowboats with outboards. The bigger ones were all rented (Father's Day, yanno.) So, I looked for a party-charter, and for some strange South Carolinian reason dealing with blue laws, there are no party-charters on Sundays. But there are private charters. So I hired a guy in a 23' center console for a half-day's fishing. I was to meet him at the marina at 1PM, but I had nothing going on, so I propped myself in the shade and read about the Galapagos.
1PM came around, and, as we were fueling up, I met the local dolphin. Apparently Pipsqueak (Squeaky for short) has been around this particular marina for over a decade. Squeaky is an eight-foot bottlenose dolphin. She bums handouts when she can and plays with the local boats as they come in and out. I stared at her, an arm's length away. She stared at me, a tail's length away and studied me with as much intelligence and casual curiosity as I was using to study her. I was in no hurry as the boat was taking a lot of fuel. She was in no hurry as another boat hadn't come in for a while.
We headed out, and several other dolphin escorted us through the river, to the sea.
It was a beautiful day, mid-80s (low 30s), 2-3 foot swells, sunny. Light wind tossing some whitecaps. The captain and I caught a couple spanish mackerel, maybe a foot long, to supplement our bait, but we were looking for big kingfish (king mackerel.) Unfortunately, we didn't catch any. We saw weedlines, we saw huge baitballs, and glass minnow schools that covered acres. The terns were having a fun time scooping up leftovers from whatever was forming the baitballs. We saw a lot of little spanish mackerel, some of them running away very quickly from whatever was chasing them. It was a perfect fishing day, all the elements were in place. Except nothing was biting.
The Captain was apologetic, but I've never found a way to force fish to bite, so we headed in. The wind kicked up, and heading against an ebbing tide, the waves were 3-4 feet, with the occasional 5-6 footer. The ride back was bumpy in a small boat, but it was fun. I leaned back in the co-captain's chair, watching land approach about 8 or 9 miles away, sticking my head around the console and letting the wind whip through. My view was parallel to the waves, and I saw a dark shearwater follow the trough, skimming the water below the level of the crests. I'd never seen a shearwater before. The Captain said a storm blew a few in with the weedlines a few days before.
Back on shore, I hopped in the car and pointed (oddly) south, to pick up the highway back to Atlanta. I was in full going-home mode. Mambo playing on the CD, and the passenger seat filled with the roadtrip dietary catastrophe of whatever looked good at the time. Starbucks Frappaccino. Vanilla Coke (second time I've tried it. Eh.) Twix candy bar. Teryaki beef jerky. Krispy Kreme glazed donuts.
The mambo gave me the clue. This was what I was looking for. No blinding flash of inspiration, no thunderclap, but rather a slow, dawning realization.
Cuba.
Not the Cuba of Castro and the questionable quasi-morality of embargo, but a Cuba that doesn't exist any more. I have a hard time thinking of the words to describe this feeling. Exotic, antique, tropical, none of these words describe what I was thinking on an interstate highway in the middle of the Georgia tidal plain. It's the symbol that is more meaningful than what words or descriptions come to mind. It isn't even Cuba itself, but rather a vagueness that comes with thoughts of Ernest Hemingway or Desi Arnez, thrown-in with too many hours lately playing a silly computer game of tropical island dictatorship. I'm mixing fantasy and idealism, fiction and history, along with something that may have never, truly, ever been. But to some dark corner of my subconscious, something gelled quietly, yet firmly. I understand it, and I don't, and I can't grope around any longer at 1:30 in the morning trying to describe something that is probably mostly right-brain, anyway.
I pulled into Atlanta relaxed. I took a couple pics, I'll size 'em and post 'em tomorrow.
My beard is still salty; I can taste the Atlantic.
Stats:
704 miles (1125 km) roundtrip
2 states
37 hours gone, perhaps 11 driving in all
Fish: 0
I bummed around the island looking for boats to rent. The only ones available were little rowboats with outboards. The bigger ones were all rented (Father's Day, yanno.) So, I looked for a party-charter, and for some strange South Carolinian reason dealing with blue laws, there are no party-charters on Sundays. But there are private charters. So I hired a guy in a 23' center console for a half-day's fishing. I was to meet him at the marina at 1PM, but I had nothing going on, so I propped myself in the shade and read about the Galapagos.
1PM came around, and, as we were fueling up, I met the local dolphin. Apparently Pipsqueak (Squeaky for short) has been around this particular marina for over a decade. Squeaky is an eight-foot bottlenose dolphin. She bums handouts when she can and plays with the local boats as they come in and out. I stared at her, an arm's length away. She stared at me, a tail's length away and studied me with as much intelligence and casual curiosity as I was using to study her. I was in no hurry as the boat was taking a lot of fuel. She was in no hurry as another boat hadn't come in for a while.
We headed out, and several other dolphin escorted us through the river, to the sea.
It was a beautiful day, mid-80s (low 30s), 2-3 foot swells, sunny. Light wind tossing some whitecaps. The captain and I caught a couple spanish mackerel, maybe a foot long, to supplement our bait, but we were looking for big kingfish (king mackerel.) Unfortunately, we didn't catch any. We saw weedlines, we saw huge baitballs, and glass minnow schools that covered acres. The terns were having a fun time scooping up leftovers from whatever was forming the baitballs. We saw a lot of little spanish mackerel, some of them running away very quickly from whatever was chasing them. It was a perfect fishing day, all the elements were in place. Except nothing was biting.
The Captain was apologetic, but I've never found a way to force fish to bite, so we headed in. The wind kicked up, and heading against an ebbing tide, the waves were 3-4 feet, with the occasional 5-6 footer. The ride back was bumpy in a small boat, but it was fun. I leaned back in the co-captain's chair, watching land approach about 8 or 9 miles away, sticking my head around the console and letting the wind whip through. My view was parallel to the waves, and I saw a dark shearwater follow the trough, skimming the water below the level of the crests. I'd never seen a shearwater before. The Captain said a storm blew a few in with the weedlines a few days before.
Back on shore, I hopped in the car and pointed (oddly) south, to pick up the highway back to Atlanta. I was in full going-home mode. Mambo playing on the CD, and the passenger seat filled with the roadtrip dietary catastrophe of whatever looked good at the time. Starbucks Frappaccino. Vanilla Coke (second time I've tried it. Eh.) Twix candy bar. Teryaki beef jerky. Krispy Kreme glazed donuts.
The mambo gave me the clue. This was what I was looking for. No blinding flash of inspiration, no thunderclap, but rather a slow, dawning realization.
Cuba.
Not the Cuba of Castro and the questionable quasi-morality of embargo, but a Cuba that doesn't exist any more. I have a hard time thinking of the words to describe this feeling. Exotic, antique, tropical, none of these words describe what I was thinking on an interstate highway in the middle of the Georgia tidal plain. It's the symbol that is more meaningful than what words or descriptions come to mind. It isn't even Cuba itself, but rather a vagueness that comes with thoughts of Ernest Hemingway or Desi Arnez, thrown-in with too many hours lately playing a silly computer game of tropical island dictatorship. I'm mixing fantasy and idealism, fiction and history, along with something that may have never, truly, ever been. But to some dark corner of my subconscious, something gelled quietly, yet firmly. I understand it, and I don't, and I can't grope around any longer at 1:30 in the morning trying to describe something that is probably mostly right-brain, anyway.
I pulled into Atlanta relaxed. I took a couple pics, I'll size 'em and post 'em tomorrow.
My beard is still salty; I can taste the Atlantic.
Stats:
704 miles (1125 km) roundtrip
2 states
37 hours gone, perhaps 11 driving in all
Fish: 0
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Date: 2002-06-17 02:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-06-17 08:18 pm (UTC)Mauritius sounds nice!