From here the eye can deceive. The density of the fog and the subtle lapping of the water to shore can make you forget just how deep the sea is.
The breakwater extends out several hundred yards and on the distant peaks and valleys the gulls air their wings. They stand erect on the rocks, wings outstretched as if ready for flight yet, but still enough in this fog they could easily be mistaken as part of the structure. Each pyramidal wedge of the breakwater is seemingly topsy turvey, as if randomly dropped from the sky. Yet each has it's place here, protecting the land from the ever present fear of erosion. Each exposing a rusted metal clasp that was obviously used to hoist them to their final resting place.
In the distance I hear the low burble of the diesel engine from a lobster boat returning from a day of checking traps. With a flutter the gulls take flight and swarm the boat, trolling in the hopes of a meal or scrap of food. The fishers gather on the pier and banter about the days catch or local interests. I stand on a concrete slab used to launch boats amid old wooden lobsters traps and sheds used to store whatever.
A lone rowboat tilts and totters in the wake that slowly makes it way to the shore. Tethered to a small wooden plank floating from the water. At times I feel that same solitude. The feeling of being a lone little boat, floating, yet harnessed to a much larger and infinite sea. Small, but sometimes just being noticed, justifies significance.
I wonder to myself, how the heck would you get out to that thing?
B
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As a side note: This image was inspired by "Grey Dawn" shot by one of the great Canadian pictorialists W.R. MacAskill
