"If you can just get your mind together // Then come on across to me
// We'll hold hands, and then we'll watch the sunrise //
From the bottom of the sea."
I remember listening to those lyrics when I was a kid––barely 12 years old and already deep into an obsession with music. Powerful, shamanistic guitar solos and lyrics filled my basement bedroom with another world––a hidden world.
The only other past time with a hold on my very has been fishing.
I've experienced that same world-within-worlds feeling more than a few times out on the water or deep in nature. Whether I was days into a 100-mile canoe trip or fighting violent, threatening waves in a tiny kayak, the feeling was there.
The feeling comes most often late at night in the ocean.
You wade in. The ocean is black all around you. No light from shore reaches you, only the moon. You send out cast after cast for hours––or a whole tide.
You look down.
A galaxy of purple-blue phosphorescence swirls around you, rolling in the waves and crashing across the sand. Dark shadows flash across the backs of the waves––just the clouds floating under the moonlight.
There's not a sound to hear except the deep rumble of waves. The tide pulls hard against the backs of your legs, pulling you towards the empty horizon.
There's nothing to think about except your next cast.
You want nothing. Except maybe a fish to strike. Your mind drifts.
"Come on across to me...from the bottom of the sea."
And then a fish strikes.
Sleeping in is a waste of daylight. Do what you love––go fishing.
This blog post was originally sent as part of my new daily newsletter series, An Excuse to Fish.
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