With
the onset of the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere, so begins the
elliptical orbit of this 23.5° tilted, terraqueous planet’s rotation back
into the Sun’s intensifying bath of light, those rays which will warm her
circulating bodies of water, encouraging the innate, irrepressible ambitions of
sea-life to propagate and pursue their inherently biological desires to migrate
north again along the east-coast. This planetary
perihelion, the observance of our first day of winter, marks the initiation of
an unstoppable change which will consummate six-months later in the recognition
of a summer solstice. It may seem
ironic, but within the freezing-cold reality of winter, the very nature of this
permanent axial tilt promises the future birth of yet another nine-month season
where I will poise myself somewhere before the frothy fringe of a wide-open sea
in quest of Morone Saxatilis, where I
may ceremoniously launch my plastic and rubber-bodied offerings during inseparable
nighttime rendezvous’ with the sweeping tides.
This labor of love for a pleasing pastime, this hobby, the timeframe
which governs this obsession to serially-stalk finning caudal tail, is
motivated by pre-existing forces far beyond mankind’s control, on orders of climactic
and physical magnitudes nearly inconceivable to fully-understand, but one thing
is clearly certain – that with each season’s first, fresh tying of the knot, I
am adamantly declaring myself ready,
as an eager devotee waiting impatiently to participate, to proclaim my affiance
as an avid angler engaged and waiting before the oceanfront, committed to
confront the many unrealized enticements which lure my aspirations to angle the
pitch-black fathoms of the giving sea.
In
a fanciful way, I may be likened to a single, square tessera tile held by the
dry, rough-worked fingertips of the infinitely talented artisan I’ve come to
know over decades of time as Nature, humbled in spirit as an integral
ingredient of hers which she will decidedly allow to become plastered apart of
her immeasurably grand mosaic portraying what the experienced eyes of life see as
a rousing masterpiece of creation, the physical existence that surrounds us and
that which we perceive in our mind, feel the touch of to our skin, and breathe
the essence of into our lungs, ready to proclaim my unique color to the
awaiting world, serving as one distinct part of a greater whole, and by
default, declaring myself an individual constituent married to this experience’s
far-reaching, vaulted ceiling of Moroccan-inspired architectural design as an
idealistic fisherman who is longing to begin scribbling madly, filling the
pages of his yet unwritten, unlived year of fin-chasing, those chronic
confessions set aside as stacked piles of salty-inspired memories detailing his
triumphs pulled from deep within rolling waves, grateful reflections and
celebrations recounting the many tales of tails aplenty. Oh, the possibilities which await the surfcaster who has ached all-winter-long
for familiar encounters with finned inhabitants of the flooding tide!
And
so as this recurrent pilgrimage of seaside wanderings inspired by the seduction
of swimming, laterally-striped ambitions ensues, I am faithfully professing
myself wed to yet another year of treading for untold miles at untold hours the
sandy beaches of New Jersey, from
this day forward, for better or for worse, until December do us part. I am
devoutly determined to claim no other beaches as my own, for I am happier beyond
compare to know her sloped, sandy shores will flood my ambitious affections
with a palpitating concordance, her frothy touch being the binding union to
wash me over with soothing waves of serenity as I sink into and submit softly within
her naturally-calming seductions. I offer my
solemn vow to be her faithful partner throughout the year, to honor and respect
her splendor, to carefully cherish her natural beauty with each breath I make for
as long as we both shall endure, united as one, in times of failure and in
times of triumph, as I eagerly anticipate the many opportunities to bond
and grow closer together in the hands of her foamy, brushing touch.
I can do nothing greater than remain trustful of the many unknown and unpredictable
piscatorial possibilities which will emerge
from rising tides of the future. With
the formation of this tiny, but essential knot I tie today, I have in essence
pronounced myself an angler, a sportsman, committed to wade knee-deep the
sandy-framed shoreline of the Atlantic, eager to commence day-one of this saltwater-nourished,
peripatetic journey amid the great outdoors, this inauguration of sorts now
coiled as a tightly-drawn knot beckoning the mysteries manifold which will
characterize a soon-to-unfold rod-wielding season and ultimately, the acquired
inspirations impregnated from an adoration of aquatic pursuits afforded and
garnered by the formidable, fertile sea.
I begin a man made afresh, shrugging-off the sobering sequestration of frozen,
windswept winter months from my shoulders, enlivened by the warming renewal
that is spring, restored in spirit and bound in unity once more as witness of her
regenerative restorations blossoming on land as budding and sprouting pale-green
vegetation and over oceanfront waters as her cold, salty life-blood, the very
home of my elusive quarry, proceeds to warm in temperature, degree by degree,
week after week, oftentimes suffocating the near-shore waterways with dense,
hovering masses of fog during this metamorphic awakening in the month of May. She may be subdued in vigor, but at all times
she is very much alive. The sun’s
stirring rays and lengthier days spent crossing the sky awaken her from a
frigid winter hibernation, enlivening her body from lethargy, as she then yawns
a cool breath to the warming atmosphere, her exhalation condensing as the
blanket of blinding fog we become obscured from sight within amongst this dampened
air hanging atop the shore, as we find ourselves casting in solitude from the
sandy altars we claim as our havens away from home.
As
an angler anxious to participate, dying to steep my soul within her liveliness,
to fully-immerse myself in her arena, I know I can only patiently wait, to
remain at the ready, as all fishermen must do, and be prepared to intercept the
initial influx of invading fish, those large female breeders which swim northward
for hundreds of miles along the east-coast from their over-wintering grounds
off the shores of North Carolina, destined for the brackish upper-reaches of the
Hudson River to spawn. Undoubtedly, there
is an irrepressible transformation in the making, that of Nature maturing
before our eyes from her winter slumber in a manner too gradual to witness any
sudden, daily changes of, which may be likened to that of noticing the smallest
ambassador of aging, a blemish or wrinkle perhaps, appear on the face of a
life-long friend now advancing in years.
You know that you may not be attentive enough to recognize the formation
of this rather insignificant facial feature from a day-to-day perspective, but
when separated by the insensate distance of time, even the most subtle changes
in appearance are easily evident upon your next scrutinizing glance. And so with Nature too, these pressing,
everyday changes, the frame-by-frame snapshots we keep in our minds, become the
instinctive focus of our endeavors, and if one is vigilant and persistent
enough, these visual and sensory cues which we clutter our mind with, splicing
together all-season-long, saving, amassing, and editing for when the full-reel
is finally released from the memory of our cutting-room floor and allowed to replay
at length in our mind, this independent film we entitle Life As I’ve Lived, those singular moments in time discovered,
preserved, and cherished to represent one’s own personal prosperity, only then
is the significance of one’s persistence on the sand revealed in its entirety, climaxing
in a glorious repose of thought and understanding, its meaning wrought with particular
purpose in the impassioned eyes of the beholder, fortifying the foundation
supporting the pillar of standards by which we live to define ourselves, the
paths in life we follow to tread with our footsteps, the actions we adhere to
guided by the words we live by, depicted in the closing credits honoring the
names of littoral places we have admired and held dear all-year-long. You will feel as though you have not breathed
air to live, but lived to breathe
air. You may only be a surfcaster, but
you are a surfcaster dedicated to experiencing the bounty of riches Nature
serves for you to feast upon like that of a ravenous gourmand. This may come to be what the perfectly-timed
tide offers to aspire as she floods over my patiently awaiting feet.
It
is my hope, perhaps early in December, before the first snowfall whitens my
local beach’s tan-colored sands and crowns her neighboring granite jetty-tops
above the spraying reaches of restless waves, shortly after the arctic-onset of
yet another season-closing winter solstice, when I will come to stare-down my reflected
soul in an awaiting mirror, observing the many truths discovered over the
full-spectrum of a timeframe where my stamping, wandering footsteps were left
impressed into soft and wet, dark sand as temporal proclamations attesting to the
very nature of living three-quarters of the year on the hunt, but not entirely
for yearned fish, for there also persisted incessant hunger-pangs seeking
nourishment for the testosterone-fueled inner-self longing to be fed the myriad
raw and all-embracing elements of Nature, for this wayfaring surfcaster to step
closer to discovering a purposeful reason for allowing myself to become possessed
with the crazed idolizations compelling the dusk-to-dawn pursuits of a striped
fish, rationalizing a sound reason for allowing the bitter taste of the Atlantic’s
salty water to drip from the lips of my wave-soaked face, having stood as a wide-eyed
challenger to the churning surf, studying oncoming sets of waves, cautiously
back-pedaling in a shifting, sinking sand in order to dodge another merciless
drenching.
To
step forward boldly as an admiring angler, placing oneself face-to-face before
the physical, yet oftentimes assaulting, elements of Nature, it is inevitable
that such a man will find his experience heightened between the alternating and
stirring emotions of unyielding frustration placated by calming joy, slumps of
boredom interrupted by sudden, riveting bouts of excitement, occasions of upsetting
loss forgotten in the wake of eye-opening discovery, as well as the most
rewarding sensation to wash ashore from the breaking waves of the surf, that
which is pure, heart-racing exhilaration, all of which provoke an idle mind
when it is finally released from the civilized constraints of reality, finally
being permitted to drift in an ebb and flood of thought, are these dreamy
passions one perceives as real as the rush of water violently pushing and
pulling at their readjusting legs and feet, which when altogether coalesce, yield
the inescapable sensations, those distinctions of having stood resolutely as a saltwater
angler, one who recognizes those guiding, primal reactions which will pinch one
in the cheek to navigate the mind through a blackened night of isolation or
serve to prevent the daring from the fate of being swept from a jetty whose
rocks are pounded by loudly punishing and roiling waves. From the perspective of a man who willingly
introduces himself atop this oceanfront stage in settings which provoke such
striking, yet altogether memorable emotional responses, it becomes clear that he
is simply engaging himself within a self-prescribed test of sorts as challenger
to the offences of Nature, and ultimately, is casting his heart out to the sea
in an exchange for one solid-tugging response, all in the hope to liberate his
undying spirit and satiate any rumbling hunger as he will grow saturated to the
bone with a renewed zest which only she may resuscitate, much like a master chef
who has grilled marinated, mouth-watering fillets to succulent, tender
perfection, indulging all who invite themselves to dine at her charitable table
of plenty.
I
know that this is exactly where I will find myself again, one-on-one, hungered,
challenged, and at times confounded with the enigma of my elusive quarry and
her ever-changing habitat. This
anticipation of mine, as tangible and just as life-sustaining as the rich,
oxygenated blood coursing through my arteries, permits me to cast as an angler
of the surf who is wrought with longing desires to explore and witness first-hand
the many bountiful exhibits of both life and the inanimate, all in their respective
variety of limitless representations, scales of size, and offerings of form
awaiting discovery within the saltwater environ flourishing in a flood before
my eyes. I tell myself that I’ll work
harder in succeeding at my chosen craft, learning how to become better, all so that I may allow peace,
the greatest catch of all, to rise up and permeate through my submerged legs
during each session the boots of my waders step to impress the wet,
slick-looking sand smoothened at the daring edge of this sea of endless relief,
reeling-in soulful enjoyment caught amidst the diversity of pleasures offered
by the sport itself. I will vow to push forward for more, to endeavor, and ultimately,
triumph as a man humbled by his surroundings, fully-aware that if a fish
happens to flop upon the bubbling sand of the surf, then all the better for
me.
As
I see it, this act of harmonization cast between a mindful man and the natural
world, fisherman to the ocean, will subsist to meld seamlessly as the year
peels itself to the frozen core of December.
These prevailing testaments are the collective elements which, though my
continued participation, will come to be unveiled as my unbridled ideology, my interwoven
constitution set before Nature’s handiwork that, from my own perspective, only
I can appreciate as the cool, cherished breaths of air I long to inhale at five
o’clock in the morning, as I am the afflicted surfcaster in need of a saltwater
remedy to purge my bloodstream of a terrestrial lifestyle lived within the
excess of civilized comforts for months on end now, as I choose instead to embark
forward, creeping about within the cool darkness under a star-studded nighttime
canopy of pierced, flickering specks and acquainted constellations, those
withstanding before false-dawn paints a fresh morning sky, embracing that which
is my inner-wolf howling skyward under the accompanying light of a full-moon
dropping steadily in the west, stoking the atavistic element suppressed within
my being, as it claws to unleash itself from the accrued restraint of winter’s
numbing desertions.
So
here I begin anew, before the hopeful promises of yet another dawn’s captivating
hues erupting in gradients of colorful combination overhead, emerging from below
the distant horizon of a bluish-grey abyss, beginning each and every season before
the water’s edge in the same manner as years prior. I always have and I always will. It is the month of April and I am not yet
clothed in my fishing gear, wading the shallows of the surf below a setting
moon and simultaneously rising sun. I am
completely dry, in the comfort of my home, pulling together between my two
sprawling hands the many under and over-wrapping loops of a knot in the making.
I may be likened as a self-ordained
pastor offering his blessings for a perfect marriage of faith, pronouncing a
tight bond where two synthetic contenders are being drawn to join together in unison,
to never falter or slip, whose embodiment represents the unification of old and new, where the opposing pairing of nylon
monofilament coils in a firmly-wrapped, knotted collusion to the polyethylene fibers
of Dyneema-based braid, forming the essential unity which is the very physical link serving to
connect this man to the faraway saltwater depths of my fevered passions. This matrimony, secured to and buried deeply
onto my reel’s spool, serves as the binding connection to a metaphysical
extension of my perceived vision scanning under the water’s opaque, shimmering
skin which I will rely on as much as the solid ground under my feet, this hair-thin fiber sent cast afar and
retrieved back attached to a diving, plastic presentation representing nothing
more than an airbrushed, submersible embodiment of hope adorned with hooks, swam
unseen in return to me under the swaying motion of spirited, enigmatic waves, wobbling and
rolling from side-to-side in an erratic manner in order to provoke a predatory attack,
and if not, at least produce a faithful, v-shaped wiggling-wake emanating atop
the water’s surface and stopping suddenly with the sound of a sharp, metallic clink
at my rod’s ceramic-tipped eyelet.
Reeled-in rests a tiny barrel swivel encouraging me to recognize that
nothing could be more importantly asked for from a fisherman, than a unified pairing
of filaments proving to outlast as one, remaining true through a fashioned
compatibility, faithful in purpose, and habituated to endure the repeated trials
of retrieval.
This
union is far more than a cinched knot.
It represents the physical manifestation of my impatiently-sidelined,
winter-long desires to begin fishing the cool-water tides of my local
waterways, my soul’s thirst to reunite and immerse itself again as a parched-participant
seeking hydration atop the surging white-water dousing the slippery lamination
of mosses coating jetty-tops, and allow for a getaway where I may wander
amongst soft, sloped sands seething in sound to the racing rush of a suffusing surf,
to stalk eagerly, patiently, and silently under nighttime’s blackened veil from
the wide riverbanks of my favorite
hideaways, are these meticulously laid twists, the winding loops I intently focus
upon, drawing carefully around one another so as to leave no weakest point in
my woven integration linking dissimilar kinds for a common, greater purpose.
May
Nature in her goodness strengthen my consent and fill me with her blessings. What
I have joined together as one, may time and undo forces never divide. With these words, and the entire faith of my
heart, I bind my success to the fellowship of your continued strength. I accept you as my partner. I will care for you always, carry you in my
travels, and share in experience with you the host of Nature’s adversities of
sunlight and salt such that we may overcome any obstacle of engagement to
reel-in the fruit of her rewards, from this day forward, and all the days
remaining to this year in the surf, for thou are my tightly-coiled
accompaniment, my lifeline empowering me on this perennial quest for
peace.
And
so it is these truths that I do hold, that I carry warily by the nimble tips of
my fingers, my guiding principles which will outlive time everlasting so long
as I remain the rod-wielding surf-fisherman united in a harmony with his imbued
spirit and the convivial nature of a briny ocean splashing upwards around my
waist, fevered by a fanaticism for the vittae-marked fish furtively finning
with the finest finesse beneath the scalloped ceiling of waves that is the only
boundary to their expansive home, the natural confine of which I tie this knot
so I may transcend the waterline to dare these inhabitants within their own
world, a world of possibilities I found my daydreaming mind powerless to such
sweeping tides of thought all-winter-long, as those piscatorial-promises now appeal
to an awaiting reality, embodied in an allegiance of securely-clenched,
encircling coils so that together as partners we may join in unison for another
propitious season on the sand. That is just what today’s first, freshly-tied
knot symbolizes to me.
Alright
Albright, my faith is now bound to the allegiance of your tightly-wrapped coils
so that as partners we may join together in unison for another propitious season
on the sand.
In all
walks of life we require sure footing to fall upon. A fisherman standing in the mix of dangerously-slick,
moss-covered jetty-tops knows he may find this stability when planted firmly on
the spiked carbide-tip soles of his Korkers, but what’s more, he is nothing
greater than an isolated, powerless man poised atop wet rocks without the
presumed integrity of his firmly-drawn knots and the continual unity, strength,
and durability of the retrieved line, which when cast asea, enables his
passions to persist as if they were ambitiously alive and perfectly tangible to
his touch.
