Memories crack, cobblestoned moments beneath a heavy footfall, boots climb the hills to find a view of the ocean scape, bearing away words and smiles on tides of remembrance. Paced and timbred hearts sound ’round the rocks and piers; we hold each other in paper arms while the swelling pools rise, soaking in the water’s cool destruction, a slumped sinking that folds us down as we gently accept the sea, leaving treasure trunks behind to float the beaches of green tomorrow. Now that we are gone and the sight of land is lost, we can turn to fishing, the boat gently rocks and slaps the rhythm down while we fix the line. Soft sounds on subtle breezes, scents that mingle with our breathing, coffee and sandwiches wait for sunrise, the sky the colour of purple lips. We fix the tiny fish to the hooks, one treble through the upper jaw, one treble beneath the dorsal fin; our game is bigger. It’s easy to forget the land, the beach, the streets, and houses once the bait has plopped over the side and the line has whizzed out of sight; prop the rod and plant a foot, now it’s time for coffee and morning buns, the best time of a fishing time, the best morning of a fishing morning. Open the lid and lift the thermos, open the spout and fill the cup, the first smell that isn’t sea is bitter rich and liquorice creamy. We can think of no better time or place in the whole history of the whole world, so perfect there’s no need to forget what came before because it never was, that’s the power of morning, and coffee, and a fishing sunrise ... waves lapping wood ... orange canvas life jacketN ... polished oars with crackled varnish ... pewter-coloured oar locks ... navy-blue peacoat and tan cabled sweater ... sturdy black boots and a fine red cushion to sit on ... not a sight to be seen but the smiling ocean, teeth glinting in the rising sun.
