vital

One of the nice things about taking bike rides on beautiful days or even not-so-beautiful days around Ocean Drive is the friendly little wave one gets from bikers headed in the opposite direction.

Today, as I chugged along — chugging was necessary given my gears were messed up and I was unable to shift out of the toughest rung of speeds for some reason — I crossed paths with a very serious-looking, seriously-garbed cyclist/gentleman stooped over his fancy handlebars. Nice wave. Then there was the older, as in my age, woman sitting upright on a comfy looking surf bike. Nice wave. Then the older guy in a baseball hat (no helmet) followed shortly thereafter by the happy-looking tourist couple. Three more waves. Finally, on the hill between Fort Adams and the SVF Foundation, there was the 20-something moustachio'd rider who was simultaneously navigating the steepish, winding decline and talking on his cell phone. He didn't wave. He had his hands full ...

It was a different story on a bike ride earlier in the week, when I didn't see any fellow cyclists at all. Not a one. Weird. I did, though, happen upon a couple of fishermen on the rocks. I'd taken a detour from The Drive up & out to Castle Hill for no reason other than I have a penchant for detours; then, given I hadn't been there in a while (a year or more), I disembarked to walk down & out to Castle Hill Light. I saw no one at first. Just descended the weathered steps before wandering off to the left/port/whatever, where I parked myself on the warm-if-shit-laden landscape.

It was only after I'd gotten settled and gotten my fix of assorted visions involving boats sailing past Horsehead, Beavertail and R-6 (that buoy off Butter Ball Rock) in especially sparkly conditions that I realized I wasn't alone. I was sandwiched, loosely speaking, between two fishermen. One to my right. One to my left. After I'd been sitting there awhile, one of these fishermen approached ...

Have to admit, I had a hard time understanding him. He wanted something; that much was clear. He spoke, but the accent was strong. He motioned, but I was confused. It finally dawned on me (light does dawn over Marblehead): He'd caught a fish. I had a camera. This called for a picture.

So I took his picture — with a rather impressive striper — and said I'd send it to him. All I needed was his e-mail address, but when I asked him for it, he looked puzzled. I asked again, and he said, "58 Darling." Did he think I'd asked his age? Was he calling me Darling? Is there some sort of e-mail server at 58darling.com? Communication or lack thereof gets complicated ...

At last, the fisherman took out his license (for driving, not fishing) and showed it to me. His name was Vital (pronounced Vee-tal?), and his address was 58 Darling Street in some yonder town. I had no pen, and my questionable memory certainly wasn't going to suffice, but then I remembered my smart phone, on which I tip-tapped the info in the Notes app (Super Son would be proud of me). I told Vital I'd get his photo printed and send it along. He & I had managed quite the sign-language conversation by this point. I'd seen the other fish he caught: a blackfish and a tautog in a bucket. He showed me his bait, a mishmash of crabs and squid.

He also said thank you, I think. I'm not kidding when I say I had that much difficulty understanding. All except the last thing Vital said to me (it came through clear as day): "Good life, good luck."

Seriously ...

Then he walked away with a little wave ...

fear knot

Not sure what this (or that ^) has to do with anything, but I was sitting on the rocks out near Brenton Point recently — last Wednesday, I think — doing nothing in particular: just looking around, watching stuff, checking out some drowned crabs in a post-hurricane tide pool, things like that.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye (the right one), I noticed some figures in motion. It was a group of kids climbing around on that high outcropping of rock alongside Ocean Drive just past Castle Hill known as 12 O'Clock High. These kids weren't just climbing; they were jumping. Yes, 12 O'Clock High is a popular jumping spot despite being a DANGEROUS jumping spot.

Seriously, isn't that where someone drowned earlier this summer?? I believe it is. How awful. Truly awful. Beyond-words awful.

Yet here were these kids. Jumping. It wasn't 12 o'clock — it was more like 3 o'clock — though the rocks were certainly high. But, wait, if the rocks were high, doesn't that mean the tide was low, i.e., isn't that precisely when one should NOT be jumping off the rocks at 12 O'Clock High, or anywhere else for that matter??

Then I remembered my smart phone (I finally got one), on which I googled "tides in Newport, RI" for that particular date — who knows why we google what we google? — and discovered that it was, as I'd feared, dead low tide at precisely 3: 13 p.m last Wednesday, 9/14. Not that the information made me feel any better. Not that I was really going to do anything with it or about it, though perhaps I should have. I just kept watching. Tried to sit back and relax while watching kids jump off into treacherous waters ... which they managed to do without mishap.

These kids.

This time.

Then, of course, there's the spectacle (both thrilling and fear-knot-worthy) of kids' jumping off/out into the big wide world ...

boat show

OK, so I was strolling the outskirts of the boat show this afternoon and got this silly idea to take a picture of a sign. Signs matter, I think. And while I was standing there looking/staring at the sign without much hope of capturing it — given the sun was shining in such a way that I just couldn't focus — some guy walked up behind me and said, "Want me to move the sun for ya?"

There's a concept.

Truth is: I've seen lots of sunny and not-so-sunny days (and a good number of boats) lately. You just never know what you're gonna see — or hear, for that matter — at the boat show, out on the bay, along Broadway, down by Washington Square, up on Bellevue. Everywhere you look, in every direction, there are sights & signs you could never anticipate.

And wouldn't want to ...

Actually, what I need is a beer ...



Or maybe some grub ....



A puppy? Mr. Betty'd have a cow ...


But an Awful Awful might help ...