There is a man standing in the surf. He’s small, about a quarter of a mile away. Or maybe a half mile. I know I’m doubling my estimate, but I’ve never been good at judging distances. Or time. I’d say I’ve been sitting here ten minutes, and from a quarter or a half mile, I can’t say that he has moved a muscle.
If I wasn’t a fellow human and that shape wasn’t recognizable, I might not even realize that he is a living thing. Or at least meant to look like a living thing. And if I hadn’t been to the beach before, I might just have to assume that he’s a cast homage to a man who loved standing at the watermark so dearly. But even from this unsure distance, the rod in his hand is unmistakable.
The fish must not be hungry. Or perhaps there are no fish to be hungry. No fish large enough to be hungry enough for his bait, at least. It’s approaching 15 minutes, probably, and still he hasn’t moved. Maybe he’s not a statue raised for a lover of sunrises but for one who loved standing at the water’s edge, pole in hand, not catching any fish. A very lifelike portrayal.
The tip of his rod is the first to flick into motion, and I know at least that is made of a more lively material than bronze. Possibly fiberglass. Then quickly, in an instant, I know the rest is not cast in copper, or anything nearly as rigid. The man responds to the rod, working it up and down, reeling, trying to convince the fish to give up the fight. The bend in the rod suggests that it is far from capitulating its fate to the line so early in this life-or-death skirmish.
Ten, maybe 15, more minutes pass, and the battle is finally through. I am certain he landed a shark, about three feet in length, but it is hard to say much else. It’s not easy saying that much. This morning’s cool mist was burnt off to be replaced by muggy, hazy heat. Dawn was melted by the sun and now sits heavily in the air.
But I can still see that the man’s activity has caught more than just a fish. Attention has been hooked inside the house in front of which he stands. His presumed family, extended, at roughly 18 in number, filters down to see his prize. They gather, some squatting by the catch, some patting the man on the back, some just milling around in an attempt to be present. The assembly is bustling with the peaceful, communal joy common to mornings on the beach. I can now say that from head to heart, sole to soul, community stirred and affection affirmed, this salty statue is man indeed, manifest by his own flesh and blood.