It had been just after sunrise that I arrived at the inlet I’d chosen the day before. Twisting a switch on it’s cowling, the motor sputtered, then fell silent. Settling in, I had baited a hook, then cast my line into the ink-colored water. Although the morning had been quite cool, within a short time I’d begun to sweat. The combination of sunshine and still air prompted my mind to ponder the physics of the infrared portion of the solar-ray spectrum. I mused at how infrared rays do not rely upon a medium, such as air, to conduct the sun’s energy, but will heat any object they strike. That object, this morning, was me. Now fully exposed, I’d removed my jacket, donned sunglasses and a ball-cap to shield my eyes from the penetrating sun. Fishing would be slow going that morning. Who am I trying to kid? For me, fishing is almost always slow going.

After sitting awhile, taking in the pristine setting of which I was part, as I wondered just what my threshold for patience would be this morning I’d noticed that a soft puff of wind had momentarily cooled my skin. Then another. And another. Within a half hour or so a welcomed, gentle breeze had come up. The water no longer held the mirror-like reflection of the surrounding tree-covered hills. Now the lake’s surface was scalloped with tiny ripples, varying in size and direction according to the force of the air upon the water. I put my jacket back on, then dropped my boat’s anchor in an attempt to keep the rising wind from blowing my boat towards the shore of the narrow inlet. A few moments later, without warning a gust of wind sent the boat into a long rotating arc around the anchor line. My fishing hook evidently – and irretrievably – snagged on something on the lake’s bottom and my line snapped. Before I could finish reeling in the remaining line, the windswept boat reached the end of it’s arc – and anchor rope. Then it began to drag the lightweight anchor – and me – once more towards the shore. Acting quickly to avoid running aground, I switched the motor to the ‘On’ position, then yanked the starter rope which protruded from the front of the outboard motor. The engine spun to life.

I gathered the anchor and navigated to the center of the inlet, pointing the bow towards home… well, campsite. Breakfast this morning would be sans-trout. The once scalloped ripples on the water had intensified to a light chop, rhythmically slapping against the bow as I headed back. Unknown to me until I cleared the inlet, I’d been protected from the wind on the main body of the lake which now blew with force. My circa 1966 boat groaned as I struggled to steer – then hold – a course towards the docks. Now chilled – and getting colder – I managed to rifle through my belongings and found a hooded sweatshirt. It was then that I learned of the difference between finding and putting on a sweatshirt in the unyielding wind while trying to steer a boat in what had become very rough water. I finally prevailed and pulled the sweatshirt over my jacket. Then I lifted the hood up and over my ball-cap, tying it in such a way as to encircle my face, the bill of my cap protruding out from under the hood. White-capped waves now broke against – and over – the bow, sending copious amounts of water my way. I switched on the small electric bilge pump I’d recently installed to remove excess water from inside the boat and eventually made my way back. Once my boat had been securely tied to the dock, I walked back to camp, drenched and somewhat disgusted.
What had happened to my pristine morning, filled with the hope of a fresh catch and a delicious breakfast?

Now years later, as I have considered that morning on the lake many times, I have noted several parallels between it and the subject of change. Every now and then, I have this thing in my mind that just ends up being difficult to put into words. On top of that, when I have found the words and have been able to articulate my thoughts with a reasonable degree of logical progression and clarity (to me, anyway), some have concluded that I’m just a very trippy guy. Pardon the 1970’s vernacular. What can I say – they’re probably correct. That said, it is my hope, with the help of the preceding story as a metaphor, to make sense in my endeavor to, as one reader of this blog commented, synthesize my thoughts and feelings with regard to change in my own life – past, present, and my hope for the future – into words. The winds of change are indeed blowing in my life – in significant ways. ◊

Part 2 of 3 is HERE.