Osprey
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Old Friends
Wind and surf noise woke me up about 1 AM. Reminded me of many times in the past and especially the first big blow.
Old Friends
This little sea, the Gulf of California, is nothing more than a long skinny bay poking up between the western shore of Mexico and the eastern shore of
Baja California. The crooked finger of salt water is naturally narrow at the tip, wide at the mouth, just like the digits on a human hand. The end of
the fingernail points northward to what used to be the final meander of the great Colorado River. At the widest part, where the finger meets the hand,
the long bay is just over 100 miles across. Here the imaginary finger and hand disappear, lost in the unfathomable blue-black vastness, the depths of
the world’s largest ocean, the Pacific.
Yesterday a normal seasonal wind began to push the surface of the water south and east starting at the fingertip, not so much fearsome in strength as
it was unrelenting. For over 900 miles the process continued, building one long wave after the other, stretching, pulling and pushing the top layer of
the sea between the two shores from northwest to southeast, a very long fetch. Along both shores the ragged outcroppings, a few islands and small
headlands felt the surge of what was no longer a placid sea but rather a stream now moving with the terrible force water can exert upon things it
touches which are not in motion with it.
I wasn’t at the skinny end of the bay. I was here, to the south, near the mouth. The shoreline of this small pueblo runs the wrong way for winds like
this. Instead of the great stream grazing, almost caressing our picturesque little beach on its headlong rush to escape this narrow prison, the
unimaginable force of wet weight ran right into the land.
What woke me from a deep and restful sleep last night was the sound and fury caused by our being in the way. It must have been a grand surprise when,
at the end of a very long run, this terrible river of energy encountered the sloping wall of sand which was the beach near my house. Here were no
implacable granite cliffs or great rock buttresses, but only a low line of sand marked flats that rose slowly toward the mountains almost thirty miles
to the west.
Anger was what I was hearing! This was the sound of pure consternation. A large part of the tumbling, falling, pushing stream had hit a small, soft
step. This arrogant little body of water had just stubbed its toe and was howling in displeasure and pain. Each long wave unwillingly crested, formed
a crown and fell on the one before it, thereby losing its energy and identity. It was followed by the next great blue and white beast which spilled
and spewed its life upon the strand. Not one wave would ever live to spread its influence into the great Pacific. All night I listened to the waves
stumbling up the soft sand like wine-drunk soldiers stepping on the heels of their foolish leaders.
These pulses of power had no courtesy, no patience. The roar was a crazy mixing of the sound of power as it built and died. A long, solid upwelling
crested, then fell with the predictable sound of water falling on water. The next wave was sucked toward the beach but made little sound. Five or more
long waves combined, just a second later, to push all the other water up or aside so the crest, fall, rush sound was not one sound like a hand clap
but a short, loud hissing noise--a three-second waterfall. The sound was like too many people talking at once, with a half second hush before more
shushing riotous complaint.
The wind will abate. This long, narrow sea will grow calm and I will once more fall asleep to the usual silence of the night--a few dogs barking, the
sound of a night bird. After a few days of calm, when I may once again launch my small boat to catch some inshore fish for dinner, the wind will
undoubtedly return. Then the drunken, reckless thing will call to me as it stumbles ashore and perhaps beckon me to awaken, arise and attend. We are
getting to be friends, comfortable in our roles. No longer unsettled by the noise, I may lie back and drift off like an old man in the middle of a
classic film he’s seen a hundred times.
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woody with a view
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You need to get these published into a collection of short stories! I'd love to sit under the palapa and read it with a drink in my hand and my toes
in the sand.
[Edited on 4-12-2015 by woody with a view]
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Osprey
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Thanks Woody, you can get all of them for nothing; just do Search, find the ones you like, make copies, throw em in your Baja trip file. I would be
greatly honored by that gesture.
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AKgringo
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So.......you're saying 'surf's up'?
Yeah, that is the way I would have said it, if I had your imagination and command of words!
If you are not living on the edge, you are taking up too much space!
"Could do better if he tried!" Report card comments from most of my grade school teachers. Sadly, still true!
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güéribo
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"awaken, arise, and attend..." Nice. Loved your use of language. Thanks for sharing.
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watizname
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A real beauty Jorge. Thanks. 
I yam what I yam and that\'s all what I yam.
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Ken Bondy
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You are a gem Jorge!
carpe diem!
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Pescador
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I usually come up with some gem like, "Whow, the wind sure was blowing last night". And then I read Osprey's work and feel like expression and
writing belongs to those who are so gifted.
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pauldavidmena
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Location: Centerville, MA, USA
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Jorge - the ease with which you capture the rage of nature makes me envious! One day I'd like to take a crack at describing the sense of awe and angst
that comes with a New England winter, but I've yet to find a way to do so without long strings of obscenities.
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Martyman
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Thanks Osprey! I loved it.
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Osprey
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Thank you all for reading and for the nice comments about my little sketch. I give myself practice pieces and this was one in which I vowed not to use
the words "Crash or Crashing". Your comments are testimony to what happens when you omit overused words or expression. I'll do one now about Frigate
Birds and leave out the words Soar and Float, see how that turns out.
Pablo, good luck with the snow sketch because that's mostly visual and it would be a real challenge to omit the word white --- we'll be waiting for
your story. If anyone can tell it, you would be the one because, like me, you take it very personally and that's what makes it real to others --- it
is not abstract but a big part of your life.
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Mexitron
Ultra Nomad
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Mood: Happy!
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Another nice one Osprey!
A while back I read about what happened to all the energy in a wave once it breaks...while much of it is dissipated as kinetic energy, amounts varying
by wave type and beach steepness, some of it simply returns to the sea as a backwash, currents, and rip tides....so those soldiers never fully perish
following their leaders but mutiny to go on their own.
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Skipjack Joe
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This story reminds me of a terrible night I spent camping in a tent with Alex at Punta Final. The wind came in gusts, powerful gusts. Some were so
strong the tent sounded as though it was ripping to shreds. Periodically you got a set that would bend the tent poles completely over and you could
feel the top of the tent resting on your face. It was a night of great fear. Yet somehow I got used to it and fell into the deepest most restful
sleep I had ever had. Alex just couldn't believe his eyes.
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DanO
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Thanks George, for another beautifully composed piece.
\"Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible.\" -- Frank Zappa
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Kgryfon
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Yet another beauty!
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Whale-ista
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Location: San Diego
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Mood: Sunny with chance of whales
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Thank you - lovely. Makes me want to head south...
\"Probably the airplanes will bring week-enders from Los Angeles before long, and the beautiful poor bedraggled old town will bloom with a
Floridian ugliness.\" (John Steinbeck, 1940, discussing the future of La Paz, BCS, Mexico)
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