Honu, Resting

This sea turtle was tucked away only a dozen feet away from the "Two Step" entry for diving Kealakekua Bay, seemingly not bothered by the dozens of clumsy humans passing by for deeper waters and for the "turtle grounds".  I clicked these shots as I swam slowly by and kept on swimming, not wanting to be the one to bother this creature and not wanting to call too much attention to the resting turtle.

I did point one swimmer/nonswimmer toward the turtle; that person was not happy with the wetness of the water, and I thought seeing such a glorious creature in its own environment would help in some way.  That person looked, looked twice, and then swam away as well.

Swam

Swam.  Feeling sore but good too. More like myself. Time to turn the tide toward fitness and soul-solace.

Crossley-Holland: "Comfort"

COMFORT

Who said anything about comfort?
Those syllables do not rhyme
with zinc slakes or ice-bright sky.
The sea is grinding her spears.
Up creeks and gullies, over groynes
the black tide surges
and the hag wind rides her.
In the bleak forest on the staithe
rigging clacks and chitters.

Little but memory for company,
wild geese, swans whooping,
but no urbanity no
gossip prejudice bitterness sham.
In London I dream of these harsh folds,
the sea's slam, the light's eagle eye,
and here again I draw
this place -- hair-shirt, dear cloak --
around such infirmities.

--Kevin Crossley-Holland

Fishing Trip

Monterey Bay, fisherman off Cannery Row.

Linda Gregg's "All The Different Kinds Of Years"

ARRIVING AGAIN AND AGAIN WITHOUT NOTICING

I remember all the different kinds of years,

angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.

I remember feeling like that 

walking up the mountain along the dirt path

to my broken house on the island.

And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.

The winter walking and hot summer walking.

I finally fell in love with all of it:

dirt, night, rock and far views.

It's strange that my heart is full

now as my desire was then.

--Linda Gregg

(My pal Meredith sent me this poem years ago for my 45th birthday.)

Treasure Hunting

I took these photographs March 30, 2011, a couple weeks after returning from Alaska and the memorial for my friend Keith.  I was attempting to find comfort, frankly, looking to old magazines and books, especially the ones pictured here that day.  I'd talked with Keith at various times about the books I wanted to write, that I haven't yet written.  A crime novel with diving and sunken wrecks; a historical-fantasy of the aftermath of the fall of Troy, also with diving and sunken wrecks; among others. With both of those projects, I have found inspiration in that particular issue of National Geographic and in Kirk Russell's eco-thriller regarding abalone-poaching, Shell Games.  The Surfers Journal is just good fun, good reportage, history, and photographic illustration of watery lives.  

Solace.  Inspiration.  Reminders of debts owed.

I still owe you at least one good book, Keith.  I'm working on it.  Slowly.  

Bowmore

Salt For The Wound

Such salt solaces -- even as it burns.

(Photos from a happier day: PG / January 20, 2013.)

Roundness

Face Time: Wet Clay

Practice session. 

Byron: "My Soul Is Dark"

I

My soul is dark -- Oh! quickly string
          The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
          Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
          That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there luck a tear
          'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

II

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
          Nor let they notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
          Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
          And ached in sleepless silence long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
          And break at once -- or yield to song.

--Lord Byron

Pit-Stop: Mendocino

Moody's in Mendocino.  That shortbread dipped in chocolate is quite scrumptious.