Sea State
“The approach to what you do, results in what you get.” ~Freddie Gruber
I approached the sea slowly today. Some might use a word like “present.” Probably that too. I simply stopped thinking ahead. I focused on one thing at a time. My hands moved with care over the camera gear. And then to my dive gear, which really isn’t much gear at all. A mask, snorkel, fins, weight belt. But I checked over all the things, piece by piece and not rushing ahead to the next. As I did that I tuned my ears to the sea and listened. Water crumbling gently on the shore. A boat. A child’s delighted squeal. A gull.
When it was time, I rose and walked carefully and unrushed.
Into the sea.
There is inevitably a moment of fidgeting that must take place. Placing fins on feet while the camera wants to float away. Sealing the mask up over the face, while the camera is still floating away. Doing that once or twice while you get the moisture and the fog out. Some spit on a lens because you already washed away all the anti-fog. Adjust the straps. Mess with the snorkel. Retrieve the camera. Clear the pebble out of your fin. Snorkel in the mouth. Fidget with the bite piece. Blow the water out of the tube. Take a few breaths to get situated. And into the next world you go.
The water was strikingly clear today. Winter clear. Almost no algae speckles. The schools of fish were abundant. I swam through them and the fish almost seemed entirely unphased. No panicked displacement. They just kind of parted around me as I passed through.
Today was not a “art day” as we might traditionally label it. I wasn’t even sure I was going to get in the water today. I left the decision for the last minute. No dresses, fabrics or costumes for Jillian. Just a swim and observation of the sea. The state of things down there. Without judgement or expectation.
The sea met me where I was. My slow and intentional focus was greeted with an embrace. A flow state ensued. The camera disappeared into my hands and I swam about documenting with an ease that has been rare. The fish. Jillian. The light. Some days, it’s like the sea and I are at odds. Not one angry with the other. But we lose the rhythm and the dance falls on clumsy feet. That’s all on me. It’s my approach. Hurried and frantic. What’s the rush?
September in the Salish Sea. The fish were none the wiser to the events of the world.
Interstellar drift.
Mercury rising, Jillian on approach to the ethereal border.
