The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #59418 Message #2649923
Posted By: Amos
06-Jun-09 - 10:52 AM
Thread Name: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
Aazing--a brilliant man like our own BeeDub can make such a profound and far-reaching paradigm shift in such a straightforward, simply-worded sentence.
Mom, I was out at dawn, adrift on the heaving bosom of the deep as it came landward becoming the snorking bosom of the shallow. The sea swells ran slow and deep. Among them the seals cavorted and the sea lions bragged and bellowed by the seacaves; a pelican made a vertical drop into the water of my port beam and came up with a baggy mouth full of silver fingerlings.
These little fingerlings, when the seals are on the prowl, hasten toward the light and throw themselves into it in a fit of cultic frenzy, leaping inches into the air, only to find themselves seized by the pale relentless vice of gravity and pulled back again into the dangerous water. It is quite odd--they are like astronauts or scuba-divers--they throw themselves into another environ, where they cannot operate, and yet they do so in an effort to survive. What is more puzzling is that they do not know they ate in water, according to the accepted wisdom concerning the consciousness of fish; Yet they know enough to leap out of it. This is a subtle point, perhaps, but one I find compelling.
The shallows are full of them this time of day, because it is breakfast time for gulls, cormorants, seals, sea lions and pelicans. And the little fingerlings are the Big Macs of the sea. So the odds are stacked at sunrise, and it is no wonder they get a it frantic; yo can hear, more than see them, as they leap and fall in every direction-- kerflip, kerflip. All the while the ponderous waves, who have rolled on in from as far as Okinawa and Ketchikan, arrive in majestic tonnage and find themselves being squeezed into the hard places of shallows-land, their majesty divided and broken into smaller rollers, and these into breakers and sprays of foam, and finally, thrashed and depleted, into foamy fingers of dying, thrown and drawn apart on the sucking sands. What is left subsides back into the sea, and having been completely overwhelmed by the conquering enemy, joins ofrces with and lashes back against its former home, throwing turbulence and counter-tactics into the teeth of the next arriving flotilla of travelers.
Arriving back from the caves and the lionized shore cliffs, there is always a moment of doubt as you ride the big one shoreward. You feel the lift and the thrust and the roll of it under you, and you want, for a moment, to cry "Take me!!" and run to the break, catch the curl, and become one with the crashing death of the waters. But this you must not do. You let it pass, instead, like an express train passing a bicycle; and when it has crashed its weight onto the bar, you then thrust forward and ride in to the shoal as the great wave, now broken, escapes back under you. Then you scrape to a happy, balanced stop at the foam-line and all is well, the process is working, you haul out and go off to get the car, and forget, for another time, those ponderous wet, rolling majesties you traveled among for awhile.