Sometimes There is Nothing
- by Linn Barnes
Sometimes There Is Nothing
by Linn Barnes
I got to the beach once again very early on what promised to be a good day. The wind was steady, off shore on the oblique from the east and slightly to the north. It was late September and good to be alone at five am, in the early starless morning waiting for the light to take the edge off what was left of the night. I set up my little camp as I had done hundreds of times before, surprised at how much I always enjoyed the simple ritual of installation which always brought me a degree of comfort and ameliorated some of the ever present discomfort with the close to total darkness I had to operate in. It was as if I was establishing a perimeter, a safe fortress against whatever might materialize in the dark. First the rod spike to hold the very long surf rod was installed in the wet sand, while I unfolded and planted my canvas chair, equipped with back, arms and cupholders. Then I removed my vest, a fresh water fly fisherman’s vest, with many pockets to hold all the gear I needed. This made it possible to not bring a tackle box, one more heavy item to lug along over the considerable stretch of sand to the water. The vest, which was loaded with assorted rigs, lead weights, extra knife, glasses, cut and whole mullet for bait, anything I could imagine I might need for the morning, including a couple of pieces of thick buttered dark bread that my wife, Allison, had baked the day before and a small thermos of strong black coffee, was dropped over the back of the chair to keep it from blowing away should the wind pick up. I planted the thermos in the sand next to me next to the bait board. I put on the windbreaker I had brought along tied to my waist over my hooded sweatshirt and finally sat for a moment. I poured myself a small amount of the strong coffee and listened to the ocean, hardly discernible in the dark, the waves breaking a mere ten yards from my encampment, which I would soon have to move back further up on the sand as the tide gained ground. This was the perfect time to be here, installed and ready for what the sea might offer on an early Fall morning.
My father used to scale the mullet before threading it onto the hook. I did so for years, until I finally realized that the scales if left on the flesh would help anchor the bait to the hook and, in addition to securing the bait during the cast, make the attacking fish strike more deliberately to get to it, which would in the end help me to properly set the hook. Most fishermen talk about ‘which’ bait is correct, but it seemed to me it was much more important ‘how’ you baited the hook, how much bait to use, the size of the hook and how to most effectively thread it on the hook. If you were convinced only small ‘snapper’ blues were your prey, keep the portion of bait small, as well as the hook. On the other hand, if you had any evidence of larger fish, you used larger hooks and larger baits, up to, with certain special rigs, an entire mullet. You wanted the fish to attack the entire presentation, bait and hook, before you reacted. Otherwise, if the bait or the hook was too big you were doomed to a day of ‘nibbles’ and ‘nudges’, which would after even a long session result in nothing but annoyance and frustration at a lost morning. Like everything else, deliberation and careful analysis really mattered. And, perhaps more importantly, you had to be willing to change what you thought you had perfectly figured out. Eyes, ears, migrations of porpoises north and south and flights and concentrations of sea birds were your tools. One thing was certain, this was not a passive activity, as people sometimes thought fishing to be. Not in the least. Full concentration was the order of the day. Anything less, and you were just ‘on the beach’, which, of course, had it’s place, but not for the serious fisherman. Fishing seriously had a way of bringing you not just ‘onto’ the beach but ‘into’ the ‘idea of the beach’ and the sea, scribing a pallet of manifold possibilities, both exterior and within.
I made what I thought to be a good cast into the dark, listening for the weight to hit the water, but hearing nothing but the wind and the waves. I could tell however that it was a good cast by the amount of line that had peeled off the reel. I let the rig anchor itself, waited, standing, for a couple of minutes and returned to my chair and coffee, after securing the rod in the sand spike holder next to my chair. I always arranged the rod close to my right arm so that I could be in constant contact with the rod even when I was having coffee or eating. It was absolutely necessary that you consider the rod an extension of your body equipped with all the requisite muscles and nerves. Of course, it was possible for a fish to hook itself by the ferocity of it’s attack driving the hook firmly into the flesh of its mouth, but not as likely as when you were in control of the many variables which were presented to you on any given occasion.
I waited a long time. And, then a very long time. I reeled my line in, checked my bait and concluded nothing had touched it. I cast again. And I waited, again. Nothing. Not a nudge, not a nibble. Nothing but waves and encroaching tide, now forcing me to pull my camp further up on to the beach. Re-situated, I poured myself more coffee and made myself comfortable for the long run. Time went by, slowly. The sun was rising and burning into my face. I pulled my hat over my eyes and my collar up against the increasing wind. The sensation of heat from the direct sun and the cold wind simultaneously assaulting me was a little bewildering, but I had seen it before. It was only the ocean, sun and wind, no more, nothing else. Although it did give me the impression that I was not welcome on this morning. Unwelcome by who, or what? I felt a little unglued, but in control, nevertheless. I checked the line for the tight bond I needed with the bait and weight on the other end. And then I did it again. And, finally I began to relax, to sit back in my chair and let the sea have its way. It was all way beyond my control. The truth was simple. I was happy enough just being there, a witness to all of it. I thought about how much everything had changed since my arrival before dark, and how long ago that now seemed. I had the clear sensation of evolving with the morning, changing with the tide, the sand and the wind. I felt more akin to the gulls floating on the wind near me and the fish in the sea not far from me than my own now foreign and distant world of things and fellow humans. I began to imagine myself strapped to my chair, an obligatory witness to all events unfolding before me, the sirens in the waves singing madly - strange melodies unimaginable by any human, known only to the sea and the fish I was there to kill and devour. Once again the tide was coming close, my feet now covered by the encroaching waves. I wanted to move back, but I did not. The sea was gaining ground and I chose to stay in place, for what reason I had no idea. Finally when I glanced at my feet now submerged in the water, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my thermos of coffee was afloat and about to be carried off by the tide, and, only then did I break the trance like state I had fallen into, rise from my chair, recover my errant thermos and retreat further back up on the beach with my rod, rod holder and chair now on safer ground above the reach of the incoming ocean.
I sat for a long time. The passivity and therefore persistent danger of the ocean dominated my thoughts. It was all a question of ebb and flow, no more, just the tides. There were no metaphysics involved, no volition, no plan. The ocean was overwhelming, sometimes shocking and more dangerous than you could imagine, without ever being anything more than what it was. It was a very strange thing to say, ‘The sea giveth and the sea taketh away’, which you frequently found in various sea going cultures. This is a serious confusion, ascribing a form of consciousness to what is the weight of water and the moon rocking around our tiny orb, a speck lost on a distant wing of a minor galaxy, but one which is our very own. To understand our existence here and now requires no more than an understanding of the elegance of a good cast and with luck the retrieval of a beautiful fish.
But not on this morning. No matter the wind, waves and tide, all perfect. No matter the bait, the line, the weight and the cast, all perfect. On this morning there was nothing, as it so often can be, in spite of the wind and waves and perfect tide, in spite of all things, there was still nothing.