Montana Wolf

Thursday, August 19, 2010

I've taken to drinking Cokes again. First time in years. My body craves sugar, perhaps in a last ditch effort to balance the salt water and salt air. My taste buds take on Coke, chocolate, ju jubes, sweets in any form it can conjure. I don't fight it.

It felt good to be out of contact with the world. No cell. No computer. It seemed right since I already felt on the edge of civilization. Slippery boardwalks and all. All, including dog shit. Couldn't figure out why locals didn't train their dogs to poop in the trees. Wet dog crap, well, it made me slide right by the gift shop. In a metaphoric sense.

The fog lifted enough the next day that we headed south to a rocky area with irregular bottoms and ledges for Ron's favorite, rock fish. I'd never heard of them. He claimed them to be the firmest, tastiest white fish. Off we went into the gray day. Humpback whales breached and mixed it up with sea lions. Circling, circling they rose from the sea, mouths gaping, water and seaweed dripping down their bodies in waterfalls of green. We halted the boat opposite rock outcroppings; one stone island lined in cormorants and gulls. Ron dropped the line and began his rhythmic setting of the hook a few feet above the bottom. Back and forth went his arm, his thumb on the spool, slowly letting out line. Back and forth in hypnotic zen-like motion. Puffins squawked, lifted from the water and shook their wings. Otters floated on the waves.

There is never one thing going on in this sanctuary of the wild. It is a constant feast that moves the soul, challenging the senses to just try to take it in. Yes, the fish was the sweetest I have had; the memories of that rocky shore contained in every bite. Right down to the rain that began to fall. The liquid sun.

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