Log0006

Mood of the Morning

I’d rolled out of bed at 5:30, strung on my running shoes and started up the coast before the voices could protest. I knew the allure of a warm body, smooth sheets and soft words would pull me back if given the chance. So, the moment I woke, I made for the door. 

I’d hoped to catch the morning sunrise as I made my way along the empty coastline. Though a blanket of thick fog greeted me and as the mist rolled forward, steady drizzle began to settle in. 

The pace was natural and slow and after a few kilometers I was already feeling the weight of my shirt as it became waterlogged. The first beach where I entered was a popular spot for locals and tourists, usually the further north you headed the crowd would quickly thin to nothing. But at this hour, none of that existed. Only a few surfers, the odd fisherman and a long lonely coastline. 

I had just picked the pace back up, having navigated a slick seam of rocks exposed by the low tide. The rocks were covered in crabs, scrambling around looking for critters to feast on. And as I began to settle back into my rhythm, I saw the scene. A perfect composition. Muted tones of gray on grey and two figures articulating the mood of the morning. 

If you’ve ever looked through a thick marine layer, at a person in the distance, you will know what I mean. At first you can’t even make out the full silhouette, just a darker smudge of value. The nearer you get, the more the form is revealed, the figure, then the character. 

Here two aged and rugged men, stood with waves crashing at their legs. They’d waded well into the shallows to cast their lines. Fishing patiently, unfazed by the mist or rain. 

They were a good bit separated from one another, but as I slowly neared them, I could make out the closer of the two. He stood stoically, smoking a cigar. Between the waves and mist I didn’t know how he kept the damned thing lit, but I could smell the warm tobacco smoke. I judged by the age on his face, he wasn’t wanting for experience. 

Both of their fishing lines stretched out a ways, framing the scene around them. Part of me was kicking myself for not bringing a phone to capture the reference, a larger part of me was grateful I hadn’t. The imagined scene could grow and contort, unbounded by reality. At least until I put it down in graphite. I spent the next few kilometers battling with the idea, whether it needed to be drawn or not. Then, not knowing that ultimately, the following months would decide for me when I couldn’t let the scene out of my mind. 

So, with no reference, I kept on. I thought and drafted. 

For a time, a coyote emerged out of the fog. Plodding along out in front of me until the mist swallowed him again. I followed his paw prints as vigilant gulls flew overhead. 

The dawn mist revealed a lot that preferred to remain hidden. In the cover of fog and darkness, each member of this hierarchy felt emboldened to venture out. Critter and crabs, birds and coyot. Each wagering their lives on their ability to remain unseen by the other. Just like the fishermen, all were hiding and hunting something, but nothing hides in the fog for long. 

Of the stunning sunrises I’ve witnessed on these Shores I’ve never had a morning captivate me like that. The trance I was in continued through my turn, and all the way back home. As I rounded out on 22 Ks the sky was began to lighten, and although I was saturated through, I was grateful for the morning.