The Land of Misty

About 60 feet from this place, just down the beach, this occurred, a story I call "Proxy of God"...

Four hundred years ago ponies scrambled onto this shore from a shipwrecked Spanish galleon, or so goes one version of the story. The descendents of those small horses roam this area still, wandering the shores of Chincoteague and Assateague Islands. It is the Atlantic shore of Assateague that I now walk so early this morning.

I had hoped for an impressive dawn, the sun rising on a shimmering sea, where I would capture it in a photograph. Nature does not always give us the things for which we hope. This beach, this day, was shrouded in a dense gray fog. The dull tan sands, the dark pewter of wettened sand and gray water were divided by a thin white ribbon of foam snaking into the near distance to be lost in an indistinct world.

Ahead, as I walked the wet, firm sand, I could see the shapes of two seagulls, perhaps 60 feet in front of me, still unformed in detail to my eyes – only imprecise forms of their real appearance. They stood together, heads bending to something lying on the shore. I imagined it to be an early morning feast of crab.

As I approached within 30 feet, the gulls flew away, leaving behind a dark oblong shape on the beach. As I came to it, I paused in my stride, and examined the carcass of what looked like a puffer fish, perhaps eight inches long. Its spiky skin was greenish gray on its back and yellow orange on its upward facing belly. It laid there, motionless, life gone, as were its eyes and much of its innards. The cycle of life had tilted this moment to the birds.

I looked for a moment and said a small silent prayer – a prayer to the wonder and mysteries of the cycle of life and death. And as I turned back to my course and walked on, I considered such things - life, death, love, my place in this world. Thoughts large and small washed up on the surf of my mind, only to be swept away by some new thought carried on the next wave.

At one point, I stopped, set down my tripod, turned to face the sea, and closed my eyes, extending my arms outward from my sides, as if expecting an embrace from the mother ocean. As I stood, eyes still closed and arms outstretched, I listened for the longest time.

The surf generally rolled in from the right, making a rush up the sand, only to end in an effervescent hiss as the water receded. I have always wondered what made that sound. I understood the sound of the surf, the sound of waves breaking – cyclic yet with randomness in the details. But I did not understand the sound of the water’s retreat. Was it the shifting of sands? Or was it sea foam bubbles? It remains one of many things mysterious to me.

After many minutes of standing in that pose, listening, concentrating on my breathing, trying to project my presence outward from this closed-in world, I finally picked up my tripod and continued my course.

After several miles I turned and retraced my tracks in the sand. Only two other footprints were there – a young couple who I had passed earlier, out for an early morning stroll, holding hands, walking barefoot. Those footprints made me think of the paths of relationships, love and their mysteries.

The fog remained dense and again I saw the outline of the two gulls at the carcass of the fish. And again they flew off into the grey when I was near. This time I did not pause at the fish, but only looked as I walked by. Ahead, though, I saw another shape on the beach. As I came to it, I saw that it was a smaller fish of the same species, perhaps 5 inches in length. It lay on its back, fins swimming in air, its mouth making gasping movements, ironic given its non-air needs.

It must have just washed up onto this shore, since it had escaped the notice of the ever hungry gulls, whose shapes I could see settling back down on the breakfast corpse of this fish’s brethren.

I considered for a moment this fish’s fate and my place in it. I decided it was right by all things I believe to be right to try to move it from hopelessness, where it lay now, to hope. I was not sure about handling the bristly skin, so I dug a small trench next to it with the toe of my shoe, rolled it onto the top of my shoe with the tip of a leg of my tripod, and flung it into the sea with a kicking motion. I smiled to myself, full with the ego of being God-like to this small creature. Powers far greater than I mocked me, though, forcing me to scurry away from the sea to avoid a larger than normal wave, a wave that bore the small fish, washing it up even further on the shore than it had been moments ago.

I considered this. Was it an omen? Was it a test? Was it more likely the randomness in an infinitely random set of events of which we face each day? Whatever the origin of the occurrence, grand or insignificant, it called into question what every moment calls into question - what are we to decide to do or not do in this moment?

I squandered a few extra moments pondering a decision for further action or inaction. Should I choose the action of flinging it back once more to the sea? Should I choose the action of continuing my walk down the beach, respecting the cycle of nature. Should I consider this more?

I decided on another attempt. Again I dug the smallest of trenches with my toe, rolled the gasping fish on my shoe, and once the next wave seemed to be at maximum depth in the nearby sea, I once again flung this hapless creature into the water.

I stood, torn between wanting to see what happened and the urge to walk rapidly down the beach, to not look back, to add the veil of fog to distance myself from this event and any interaction with it, to put this literally behind me.

But I did not choose that course. My decision was to stay there for a bit. As if to tease or test me further, the third wave that rolled up the beach returned the fish to the shore, flipping its fins weakly.

I smiled at this cosmic game or this meaningless event, but the pattern was set. This time in an attempt at greater distance, I rolled the fish onto the tips of my tripod, and flung it yet further into the sea, in what was probably a grand gesture of impotence against that great grey force that was the Atlantic ocean lying before me.

I waited. The next wave rolled in, once again forcing me to retreat up the sand – but no fish. Another wave, then another, then another. Cycles of waves without the prickly creature. As I watched, waited, I considered, what is my responsibility, if any? And since I had the gall to assume that I should take responsibility, how long should I commit to watching for the fish to be washed ashore? Was ten waves enough? A hundred waves? A minute? Ten minutes? A lifetime? I had no answers, other than what I felt – I had to wait long enough.

I am not sure how long I stood vigil on that shore, as the gulls finished their morning meal on the other fish, but finally I turned, put my tripod to my shoulder, and walked into that enveloping dense fog, disappearing from impact on that simple life forever.

It might be that he washed ashore the very next wave. It might be he lives happily still in those cold waters. It is not mine to know, it is simply mine to decide and to do or not do, moment to moment.