The mid-July sun is a furnace. Around me, brightly coloured lichen cling tightly to sea ravaged rocks, a painter’s palette of colour contrasting brightly against the deep blue merger of sea and sky.
A soft sea haze drifts gently over the glassy body of water stretching out in front of me, broken only by an occasional, hidden swell, rising unexpectedly from the depths below; the sea’s chest expanding momentarily, before a long, drawn out exhale of water crashes against the glistening rocks below.
The sharp shrill of nagging seagulls, hovering like hot air balloons on warm ocean breezes, several metres above my head, all too curious about the contents of my pungent bait bucket.
I close the offending lid tightly, and slowly lean back under the cooling shade of my beach umbrella. With my fishing rod butt resting quietly under my right hand, I take the chance to rest my squinting eyes.
My mind meanders out to sea, floating aimlessly on a current of fabricated thoughts, carried away on tall tales, adrift on fables of the one, big, whopper of a conger eel that somehow slipped away…