It’s a high-test day, glimmer frost, glimmer strong
Sharp and cold sun, not for long
The prospect knows that his time is near
And we laugh for we know that this is what’s dear
“They’re quirky” I’m told as fruit falls from the tree
No problem I say, it’s not Greek to me
She cubes it and serves in stew to taste
I remember the thing, cold fridge, on a plate
The phone rings again as she’s prone to do
“Whatcha doing?”, not question but greeting, a que
The list now prepared I answer in time
The circuit completes, we finish our dime
There is something special about the smell of neoprene. Regardless of my physical location and proximity to the ocean the smell of wetsuit material whisks me right to the waters edge. Fortunately this comes without the urge to pee until I am actually immersed.
As it happens however there are more than one of these Pavlovian conditions installed in my operating system. The other is the smell of saltwater which, after a few sweet deep breaths, invariably induces the need to poo.
For years I wondered exactly what might have caused this particular association. Perhaps something to do with the high-fiber peanut butter sandwiches I used to make for my dawn patrol surf sessions each morning? Or was it in anticipation of the enormous Bustamante's breakfast to come, our apres surf tradition in Pacific Beach. (For years the name Bustamante became part of bodily function vernacular, as in "oooooooh I have to Bust a mante!)
After much speculation, consideration and general parlor room banter I decided on the theory that the smell of saltwater causes a total state of relaxation in my body. There are few things in this world that match the nurturing awe, love and compassion of Mother Ocean's greeting. As a result the stress and tensions simply fall away and with them their hold on the residues of yesterday.
I have learned to get up earlier, hopefully making time to vacate the premises before leaving however the pavlovian conditioning I have come to accept remains well ingrained. As a result some long days at sea are much longer than others but in the end it all washes away with the outgoing tides.
It dumped a good six inches here last night. The kind of long in the shovel, heavy, wet snow that muffles the city like a maw full of peanut butter. And so today's hunt will in fact be more of a mush as we set out for that most treasured and magical secret spot known as Bill's Lobsters.
Though the going may be tough the good news is that, thanks to the miracle of air travel, Bill is sure to have fresh stocks of iced down pelagics, crustations and various freshwater delicacies.
And so with shekels for spearguns we now set out on mission and promise to return home victorious and belly full.