This shot strands me in the midst of at least three literary moments: Cuchulain's defeat by the sea; Oedipus' self-mutilation; Jason's being struck down by the spar from the Argo's mast. I also hear echoes of poems by John Montague, Seamus Heaney, Robert Graves, W.B. Yeats, Homer, and Vergil. Not that my photograph compares with such verbal visions, but that's how the mind works, at least mine, paying heed to the scene at hand, yet allowing the echoes to sound and play in the mind's ear. (Sometimes, such echoing may be a cacaphony, so beware what you wish for.)
The shot also sets me there on the beach up north, just south of Mendocino, at Van Damme State Park. Look at how well that sand and shingle drains, appearing almost dry, grains fairly distinct, even as this next wave slides upward from the cove. I can feel the water and sand in my shoes as I look at this shot. The heavy, wet legs of my jeans. Think again how I didn't change into the wetsuit boots or the wetsuit up in the truck since I was just going to take a few pictures. And that's alright. Later, the faint squish and grit as I walked the streets of Mendocino, looking for used books and hot coffee, recalled the fun of this session, the salt air, the vigorous stench of rotting kelp, the bright light, and cooling breezes. It was late November, but lovely, lovely weather. Seas too rough for the class dive, but fine for kayaking and beachcombing.
And that foam.
