I hadn’t been there in awhile. But from time to time I feel the need to “re-charge the batteries”, as they say… and a visit to the sea shore is something that restores my inner gyroscope.
A visit always refreshes me. I love the crash of mean waves in the teeth of a storm, or the gentle curl of water under an August moon. It is the rare day, or time of the day, that I do not in some way benefit from seeing a stretch of water spread beneath my feet.
Today my destination was the familiar Calf Pasture Beach… not the beach itself; but rather the area just to the west of the pier that marks the end of the beach proper.
It’s a special time of the year… a special time of the day.
A September beach is something to behold. It can still be warm; but most folks are bored with the shore by the “fourth” month of summer, plus its after Labor Day & kids are back to school… so that by this time of the year the shore is the territory of the “serious” and not just the “casual”. There is definitely an air that bespeaks a degree of peace and solitude to the “true believers.”
And then there is the time of the day. It’s 5:30PM. In September, sunset is not that distant. The colour of the view is bathed in a yellow hue of a late afternoon. The air is warm; but dry and the water has flattened to a still lake-like quality. Let’s call the scene “almost sultry.”
To the place itself: I put myself at a low wall that separates the parking area from a tiny inlet, the inlet itself is framed by sea grass and a small rocky spit that juts into the Sound. The tide is nearly full high, the smell of the sea ripe, and the water is a mere five yards or so from my vantage point on the sea wall. There is barely a ripple on the Sound. I block out the sound of the seagulls voicing their presence, and feel like I am living a “still life”.
The serenity is piercing.
The day’s anxieties begin to fade… and I ease into looking about the immediate view.
To my front, situated on the rocky spit are four fishermen. Three are seated on advantageous rocks, their stationary rods positioned in smaller rocky nooks waiting for the tell tale tug on their lines. One fisherman, standing to the side, actively casts his line into the inlet… I have a perfect view of his technique… his casts range between 20 and 25 yards each time.
Their voices carry wonderfully in the still air. They are Hispanic. I can hear the musical lilt of their phrases. Although their “melody” I can clearly catch… the meaning of the words are lost to me… but I can imagine that the casting fisherman is being chided by his comrades for expending to much effort in a wasted quest.
Just in front of the spit is a squadron of Canadian geese making their way to the pier (or to points further to the East). They stay well clear of our enthusiastic angler, bellying their processional deeper into the Sound to avoid an errant cast.
I love the stateliness of Canadian geese… in the water. They look like “ships of the line”. The Royal Navy would be proud. On land… Canadian geese are foul beasts that treat any patch of green as a latrine. Too bad we can’t convert geese turds to a combustible fuel (then we could tell OPEC to take a hike).
I follow their line and scan to the East and the pier. A dozen or so fishermen are scattered on its length. The sun to the West puts a pinpoint reflection on their pails, lures and other assorted metallic accoutrements. I am sure that position for each fisherman on the pier is key; but in my time there I see no strikes.
I wish I could paint the scene.
And now I turn my attention to the grassy area in the back of the road that separates the beach path from the ball fields beyond. There, on folding beach chairs from Wal-Mart, protected by tall shade trees, are four “senior citizens”. To be honest, I forget their specific genders; but I feel certain that both males and females were represented.
They have a homogeneous appearance: comfortable white slacks, legs crossed in the same direction, light sweaters, sunglasses & hats. Theirs is not the animated conversation of youth; but the more subdued and measured tones that are the product of patience and maturity. I find strength in their presence.
And now I have come full circle, and pan back to the fishermen on the rocks. As far as I can gather, each is unlucky. But only unlucky in that they have landed no fish.
Maybe their words, unknown to me, do not address their good fortune: that the sun is warm on their shoulders, the Sound rests still for their pursuit, and while on the rocks, the rest of the world, and its weighty concerns, are held at bay.
I look once more to the Sound. The Norwalk Islands sit less than a half mile off shore… Long Island is a full inch and a half above the horizon… I squint into the sun to the West and tune into the cries of the gulls.
It’s been a long time between visits… too long between returns.