Nor'easter
- by Linn Barnes
Nor’easter
by Linn Barnes
The wind has been blowing hard out of the north east for the last five days. Meteorology bets we’re in for two more days which may include a lot of rain. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do. It could be thundering, with shards of lightning knifing the dark sky and raining in horizontal sheets. But it is not. It is a major blow out of the north east, that will not let up for a while, and that’s that.
But, I came to fish. And, fish I have, each day, in a raging surf which is letting me know in no uncertain terms that I have no business out there. There has been very little optimism about my fishing endeavors. Most of the cognoscenti I’ve spoken with in these parts are down and out about the whole deal. Some have said the ocean is ‘unfishable’ until this storm passes, while others swear it’s November we must wait for, when the large fish make it to shore…There has been a lot of talk about fishing the back bay at high tide, hiring a boat for the day, or casting from one or the other of the jetties, either north or south, at Indian River Inlet, which as far as I’m concerned is as close to certain death on the rocks as I can imagine, especially in the kind of wind and high seas we are having. The place is a menace. If you fall between the rocks, you don’t just break your leg, you break your leg off. Then, since nobody else is around, and why would they be, it’s into the drink for a final swim with the fishes, who without any doubt or hesitation, perhaps even with a wry, saltwater fish-ish grin, will welcome you with open greedy jaws, once you’ve stopped twitching, and that won’t take long. But, so far I’ve managed to fool all of them, even the sea, by catching a few small blues each day and having them for our lunch. I’m easily satisfied. I don’t need trophies, but I do like fresh fish, when I can catch them myself. But, it has not been easy. I’ve been using eight ounces of lead, that’s a half a pound, for godsakes, and still not holding bottom in the ferocious tide. I usually try to fish the high tides, but not now. The water has been eating up the beach, leaving nowhere to stand, except in the water, and eventually being pushed back into the dune fences, which can get tiresome. So, I’ve been fishing the low tides, and still getting a few fish. The low tide works in my favor at my chosen spot: as usual, south of the south end of the boardwalk, more or less opposite Journey’s End, the ancient Inn. At low tide a shelf of sand is exposed making it possible to walk out fairly far before it drops off to six feet or more, before casting. This gives me reasonably good position, if there’s anything around, which, I admit, is not especially likely, but the glamour is nevertheless there. However, it can be dangerous, although worth it since a decent cast will get me in fairly deep water. On the other hand a slip and fall can land you in serious current, where just about anything’s possible. So, I stay on my toes, and cast quickly once in position, and I’ve spotted a lull, however minor, in the cavalcade of waves, and retreat to the edge immediately following the cast, peeling line out as I make my way back to the safety of my chair, my tube and spike rod holder buried next to me deep in the wet sand.
Sitting in my chair at the edge of spectacular turbulence in full force is better than most anything I can think of. The waves are tumbling and crashing right in front of me and washing up to my feet. The overwhelming impression is of a strange warmth and cocoonish communion. The world behind me is no longer part of my perceptible reality. I have north, south and east, while land and the west are dim memories. And I have the wind gusting to thirty and forty knots creating a wall of spray with the pounding waves, which arrive in unpredictable sets. Sometimes there are as many as three of four waves incoming before their retreat, lined up one after the other, like maniacal charging waves of Napoleonic hussars doomed at Austerlitz to not much luck, then falling, dying, the decimated remnants drifting back out to be re-claimed for the next assaulting charge of white water, rising higher than the last in the unrelenting and screaming gusts of wind, the ocean’s clarion call to battle. This drama is repeated again and again, the rhythm an incantation bringing you into intimate contact with the core of the sea and the power of the storm. It will continue until the storm finally blows itself out. There will be no end until it folds up and dies, vanishing into the vast wilderness of turbulence, tide and wind, wind slowly backing out of the northeast, swinging this way or that, finally deflated for a breath or two, before being reforged to blow from another quadrant, perhaps more mercifully, perhaps not.