Amidst the seagulls, an errant summer mist, and the flipping tails of anchovy splashing at the surface of the brackish river, I wonder.
Where are they, the salmon—below below the balls of bait, or slashing through; ahead of the tidal surge, or behind it?
The glint of the sun’s rays off the water. Five blasts of warning from the bullhorn of a freighter gliding up-channel shatter the stillness.
A pelican’s view as it skims by low above the waves—of a harbor porpoise with its rolling brown back and burgundy jellyfish adrift on the tide.
As a Caspian tern wheels and drops, slamming into the river, emerging with a quivering baitfish, a spoonful of its lunch, I ponder.
Will it be the color or the speed of my offering; or its depth; or the scent that it carries; that provokes a strike?
Gulls squawk. On the breeze is the delicate but promising scent of the estuary. The trolling motor purrs.
My mind relaxes. It is not the strike, nor the battle, nor the catch. It is instead this great meeting.
The joining of two straining, overwhelming forces of nature. Ocean, meet River. River, meet Ocean.
The habitat that these water bodies create, as they mingle, and the multitude of life forms supported by that melding.
That is what it is—slipping into it, riding along. Becoming a piece; a cog in an ecosystem.
Like the tidal-borne seaweed whose pleasant smell accents the perfume of the estuary, I float along. On the hunt, always; but also always, when here, at perfect peace.
Trolling the Estuary by William K. Thayer ©August 3, 2024