Fishermen A Tale Of The Undecisive

Arrival

My arrival remained unnoticed. Preoccupied with lunch and coffee; the few people that actually were there, remained distant. With the unbearable heat, I decided to head for the beach; sinking my front bike wheel in the sand as soon as I reached it.

I rushed out to the old fisherman dock. The tide had slipped back in recent times, so it was to be a long shallow walk through the lake until one could get properly submerged in water, for the current activity to be called bathing.

Here I fell to the passion of my most instinct run art, the easiest one of my chosen collection, photography. I had already taken some quick snaps on my journey here, but this was far more serious. I could stop and focus on a preferred image anywhere around me. Lovely images lay, scattered in abundance all around me. The sand felt more like field dirt than beach. The beach was surrounded by large swarms of swampy flora, dispersed all throughout the lake. Old fishing boats lay scattered at the edges, barely touching the swamp; blissfully rusting their existence away. Rustic and paint chipped allure spoke to me. In my eyes, dance shone on the rust. Our connection was a bliss. The more I matured, the more the rust refined.

The only stand out feature of the beach was the deck. It had a very old wooden dock, beloved by all the rare souls that have gone there. Most however (rather distastefully approving the quack in modern educational systems) appreciated it only for its usefulness rather than the beloved décor. True, if the dock were to vanish, it would leave the beach in a utterly useless state; for no one would willingly choose to subject thy self to meters of swamp vines just for a single bath. The dock cut right through the vines and made jumping in clear water possible. Here lies its duality. Both utilitarian and decorative, appreciation for it only grew the more the abandon the place received. For the truth remained, the now desolate swamp scape was once a prominent vacation spot, in the previous communist times. Mini golf, camping, beach days, hiking, picnics, volleyball and high class hotels filled the place with life. Remnants of the good times remain, of course. Barely recognizable golf terrains remain uncleaned of the eternal vine, leaf, dirt and bug infestations that have plagued longer than I have walked the earth; rotting old camp cars line a vestige of former glory, now more akin to a horrible survivalist ghetto; and the crown jewel herself, the former five star hotel right in the middle of my current habitat and the mentioned ghetto, degrade the remains of hotel Europe. A fine place for weddings, I am assured it was. The volley ball court is quite fine I must add, tho the spiky vines that surround it from every side aren't exactly ideal. I suppose one can make a game of it, presumably deciding that the team that lets the ball out of the court loses. However, the necessity of getting new ball every time the old one rolls out of the court never has quite caught up with folks.

The beloved vine filled, wet, rotting old ladder was forever a viable choice for anyone fearing instant pull down by the imagined monsters that lay just beyond the tiny cleaned off area. Surprisingly, I was now one of them. The truth that I was completely alone was highly influential, tho the phenomenal pictures brought by the vines esthetic did also bring many fearful memories of picture shows in such similar events. Still quite fearful, but filled with childish aesthetic love for reliving stories far past their prime, I went down carefully, relishing each step of that degrading wood.

When I finally reached the water, my heated body relieved itself in a cool splash. Though initially freed, my fear rallied eagerly and prevented me from travelling any further than my beloved friend, swamp ladder. Once the heat left me, fear began to overtake my bosom again. My lovely summer swim instantly turned to an uncharacteristically fearful barrage of unlikely possibilities, without warning. Even realizing the impossibility of the fears, I could not stop their destructive effect on me. I rushed out of the water. I fought my rising fear, managing to beat it twice more by going back in to the lake, tough each trip got ever so significantly shorter.

The allure of the green and bubbly lake's surface magnetized and polarized me. I feared each algy, imagined every possible creature that could lurk within them and checked all around me in a paranoid state. I wouldn't dare stop moving within the lake, for no beast would dare touch me while in motion.

Sadly, these irrational doom bringers prevented any other bathing. When I got up, I realized I had no way to dry myself. A thought alluded to this on the beginning of my trip, but I brushed it off with the vague assumption that I would dry myself off in the sun. I now see I forgot just how dirt like this beach actually is. I would get absolutely filthy if I went there wet.

Passing my time in a marry way, so that the water on my bosom would drop down, I snapped the most wonderful pictures of fluffy, wiped cream clouds and their broken mirror-esque reflections upon the water. It was then that I was the most wonderful, soft, fluffy and cute critters living at the top of those cream blankets, waving at me from the distance. Wishing to be with me. Wishing to play. Wishing to snuggle. Wishing to be the fluffiest and cutest of acquaintances. My true friends. For I too had love for the fluffiest hare in the land, who possessed the knowledge of forming the cutest faces around in just a passing mention of cuteness. As did I. As we all did, in time.

Though the gruff aviator looking grey raccoon, the gentleman panda, the dazzling doggy and the slick kitty poured their hearts out for me; alas they faded away, into a deeper chasm of my mind, to be drawn upon other moments of need.

I reaffirmed my attention towards getting dressed. My already sweaty shirt felt sticky on my wet body, and I feared the demise of my camera if I were to put it in my now wet shorts. Therefore, I set about holding it for the rest of the way. Now was the time for the mesmerizing boat to take shape in my photography. Oh the swampy atmosphere, the light flight of the surrounding insects and the magnificent wide raging wind span of the birds bedazzled me. The old timey rusticity of the boats, the possible varied histories flashed throughout my mind, never letting me stay satisfied by one story. Every story eventually chained upon the last, to create a consistent fantastical history filled of childish wonder, chilling storm eversion, first catch delight and lake like love.

Now, despite all my adventurous occupation of mind and body, my thoughts fall back to my troubles. Unable to relinquish the lack of most things normal, including traits, qualities and habits; I pondered my lackluster summer possibilities. Life was a disappointment these days. Happiness only arrives on rare moments, interspersed with heartache, depression and pain. Nothing ever lasted, except change. It was and forever remained the only constant.

I existed, through all the suffering. Kept existing, through it all. Why all the suffering is a puzzle I can barely ever hope to crack. Maybe you can help. Maybe I'm utterly helpless. Time will tell...