moving through the blueberry bushes
and the prickly wild rose hips,
high above the shoreline,
emerging close to the edge of a jagged cliff,
a silhouette
in the rising sun
caught my eye.
a tattered baseball cap
with the brim facing behind it;
backwards.
wearing loose- fitting jeans
that bagged down to his sneakers
appeared a short heavy fella,
with a sleeveless “New England Patriots” tee shirt.
he was holding
in one hand,
elbow creased,
catching a glitter in the morning sun,
a shiny chrome
tin cup.
from the top of the ledges,
trickling through hard coastal gray rock.
meandering downhill through the cliff walls
a path,
practically vertical,
flowed steeply and precariously
between sparse clumps of sea grass
and rose hip strays.
I could see from my position below,
on the beach,
the thin lined path;
like a small sand spring emerging
into a narrow light tan stream.
leading you down
to a primarily small beach
hidden in a rocky lagoon;
following it
would take you to the larger
more popular beaches.
now low tide:
disappearing at the bottom
through a crevice in the rocks—
it poured itself
onto a small two to three foot
sandy coastline; with shallow off shore
algae-haloed rocks
with scattered tide flowing seaweed.
this pathway,
a short cut to the beaches,
and my often taking a shot of tequila,
with a salty lemon squeeze,
have watched people—
some with children,
some carrying beach chairs.
with skill and ignorance
managing the risk;
“if they did not slip,
trip, fall,
or worst yet, lose a child”
to land safely,
then traverse the small-secluded beach
I was sitting on,
God bless them.
I’ve seen a lot of impressive slides
But, so far
all observed descents
have been successful
not to mention
my status of insobriety.
after descending to the lagoon
—until high tide
or sunset,
it was “go over the dunes”
to the more popular
nearby beaches.
still curious,
stopping my thinking:
I watched him
walk, with confidence,
away from the sandy
descending trail earlier described.
from my vantage point,
he seemed calm, cool, and collected.
he would take his bearings,
take a sip from his cup,
then continue off course
from the only way down;
if,
that’s where he was going.
more bearings taken,
he would take a sip from his cup;
i would shake my head each time
and wait on the shot
of tequila.
then going in-between
a waist high prickly scrub,
he came to a flat, bare,
good size ledge;
a bird’s eye view of the sea,
the cove below,
Good Job!
he kept looking down and around.
his eyes strayed out over the cove
and down to the beach.
looking out over the sea,
he took a very long sip from his cup.
I was sure he was taking,
a final bearing before his retreat
to his camp site.
looking down again,
as if studying a blank blackboard
that was about to be written on,
he put his cup down
by his feet
near the edge.
to my astonishment,
this huge round man
began to take downward steps;
clinging to the edge.
Convinced that this man
was about to kill himself,
I continued to watch.
hugging the wall
belly first,
one hand gripping the ledge
and the other searching crevices
on the cliff,
he started taking a groping “baby” step,
balancing himself,
as steady as a circus clown
on a high wire,
he moved about a foot down.
he slowly picked up his cup,
from the ledge
took a sip,
then cautiously put it down
by his right foot
secured on a jutting
out cliff wall edge.
gingerly proceeding downward
another half a foot or so.
anchored himself,
and would take a sip from his cup.
again with grace,
putting it down at his right foot
on another
cliff wall edge.
i held my breath many times,
taking shot after shot
squeeze after lemon squeeze
salt now saliva,
until he reached,
with ample space, a thick small flat ledge
protruding out from the cliff;
for him, to stand on.
I was in complete awe.
no more steps,
at least not visible to me,
were available.
It must have been
a fifteen-foot drop
of sheer pockmarked ocean wall;
it was straight down
to shallow tidal pools
nestled between protruding rocks,
covered with brown and green,
snails, barnacles and weaving seaweed.
with effortless motion,
as if he had done this before,
plopped himself down on the ledge,
again,
with that pensive look,
took his bearings holding his glittering tin cup,
now shining in the full bright morning sun
he took a short sip
as he sat there
dangling his feet.
he was not going anywhere.
he was at the end of a very difficult descent.
I began wondering,
if and how— on God’s great earth,
would he go back up, the way he so miraculously came
down?
i couldn’t imagine
he would kill himself
from that height.
I was mesmerized and impressed.
“oh, shit”!
I remember bursting aloud
when he suddenly in one motion,
stretched one leg downward.
his left leg dangling
then the right leg
sliding little by little
downward.
freeing both legs, toes dangling
away from the cliff wall
releasing his buttocks,
last to be clutching the edge,
released themselves
along with the rest of his body.
hanging with his finger tips
grasping the edge,
holding his weight away from the wall
with one hand, the other hand
extended with a wiggling tin cup,
(bottom facing down,
reflecting the dark shadow
of the cove’s floor).
It seemed to take forever.
it was slow motion —watching ease,
gentleness, and with eminent grace
dangle for a moment;
then drop onto the rocks
and seaweed below.
he was not committing suicide;
he was just getting down.
he landed
on slippery feet
with a lot of splattering
skittering, swaying back and forth.
then, as quick as a wink,
he was standing
quite erect and without injury;
as far as I could see.
he put his cup down,
pulled his pants up a bit,
actually quite a bit;
then pulled his tee shirt away
from his wet body to bellow out
under an incoming sea breeze.
taking his bearing
at the twenty or so feet,
of slippery seaweed -encircled rocks,
he picked up his cup
and took a long sip.
without hesitation
and without any surprise—
he danced, stepped, glided,
skipped, and jumped.
with a glittering tin cup
held high in the air.
and, his other arm
swaying back and forth
to keep his balance,
he landed without a sound
in the deep soft sand
of the coastline.
His brow beaded with sweat,
and his round cheek’s rosy,
he never looked back.
walking along the edge
of the low tide watermark,
passing by me,
his bright-blue eyes caught mine.
he stretched out this huge grin,
showing bright white teeth,
and with clear sincerity,
said “Another great Morning, eh?”
and was gone.
“. . .the solid ground underneath our feet, which is there whether we know it or not, to receive us when our own private edifices crumble away, so that I feel as if a great terror for all whom I love, as well as for myself, had passed away.”
“Solid Ground”
Caroline Stephan (1872)
Quaker Spirituality
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Little Pond Legends… R. K. Garon [ZQ Draft 2]
