Rays that Cast Shadows

I could feel the warmth of early light touch my tanned cheeks as I lay there, simply gazing at the ceiling fan. Its blades rotated slowly in a transfixing fashion, adorned with ornate patterns indiscernible due to the motion. The clock on my bedside table said 5:54 AM. The past few nights had been sleepless ones. I tend to be an insomniac, however as of late, things seem to be getting worse. Charcoal bags lie beneath my eyes. Thoughts dwell in my mind as I lay in my bed - my mind won’t rest - thoughts constantly taunt me with their presence. 

My father is in ill health. My family doesn’t have the money to pay for his medical bills and our healthcare plan won’t cover the fees. I have to work overtime on a fishing trawler known as the Meridian down in Chatham. We head off the coast. The work is often grueling, 6am-10pm  typically, and my boss doesn’t cut me any slack. Life often seems cruel to my family, but the sunrises here always seem to spark joy in me, a beacon of warm light shining in the sky on cloudless mornings. Unlike me, the sunrise seems to have purpose in this world. The great golden star mounts the horizon, stirring the nearby animals and plants from their slumber, ushering in yet another day. 

Sometimes I wish things could be this simple as a sunrise seems, just watching the sky, oranges mixing with bright yellows and light blues, a massive canvas that exists beyond our narrow view. I rose from my resting position, sitting up on my uncomfortable, faded, ivory-colored mattress so I could view the light emitted by the canary-colored celestial giant. It was truly beautiful. Its immense limbs, stretched out from its body, bathing everything in its seemingly eternal golden beam. Under the canopy of the scrub pines, the light being dim, half-cast shadows blocked the stream.  

Not everything is so fortunate in this world it seems. Not everyone can bathe in, soak in, the beams. I wanted to stay here, where everything seemed perfect. I felt paralyzed. Though my eyes were observing the surroundings, I couldn’t move. Simply an illusion of some underlying strength hidden within the recesses of my mind. I swung my legs off the side of my mattress, slowly rising from my period of inactivity. My mind once more was moving. I at once felt the glow of the caring sun. Thankfully, I had the day off. After slipping on a stiff pair of tattered rubber boots, I grabbed my mother’s binoculars and a weathered maroon-colored journal before venturing out. The torn, wooden screen door of our patio was shaking violently, rusted springs groaning loudly, as the door slammed shut.

On a narrow dirt pathway nestled among the tall pines, I found my true calling. The wilderness is undeniably calming, the gentle songs of the wrens, the orioles, the sparrows, and the black-capped chickadees. In the evening, the peepers awaken, a true symphony, perceptible by both the ear and eye, if one looks closely enough. Fallen, discolored, umber-colored pine needles were scattered across the forest floor as I approached a nearby clearing. I took out my journal. Date: March 14th, 1997, location, White Cedar Swamp, Wellfleet. I took off the protective casing for the binoculars, eager to examine my surroundings. The lenses were cloudy and scratched, with the left lens even having some hairline cracks. Certainly a sign of its age. The platform stood in the center, a pedestal for a truly amazing animal. The nest was still there. In it, new hatchlings, and a mother. The ospreys were calm during this day. A slight breeze and temperatures in the upper 70s. 

I held an old dull silver Canon in my hands, the strap firmly gripped. I looked through the narrow viewfinder, and pressed down. A moment captured in time as a distinct, sharp click rang out. The pathways soon diverged as I followed my memory of the location of the place. The place I had discovered so long ago as a small boy of eleven, eager to explore his surroundings. A place that was truly special. A respite from the daunting threats of my world. This place I nicknamed, “The Cove”. This would be my final stop for the day. My father was waiting for my mother and I at the hospital. We would be receiving his diagnosis today. It had been months since I had visited “The Cove”. By this point, the pathway had been consumed by the surrounding brush, thorns jutting out violently. Eventually, there was “The Cove”, lying on the other side. The brush was the barrier, working in conjunction with the trees, concealing the special location in fear that harm might be done to it. As I walked down to the water’s edge, I saw a horseshoe crab lying on its plated shell, legs moving sporadically, its needle-like tail thrashing. Bending down in the sand, I leaned in to pick it up. Holding it from the sides of its carapace I looked at the ancient creature. It was sizable, the color of dark hickory. Its large, beige, lateral, compound eyes refracted the light from the sun, shimmering like the glassy surface of the water. Protruding horns tipped the shell, adding a defensive look to a rather docile and peaceful animal. It could not harm me. Making mental notes on the arthropod, I released it, setting the squirming creature near the break in the tides, where the shore met the sea. 

The horseshoe crab made its way back into the ocean, living for yet another day. I pulled my journal out from my knapsack and grabbed my pen. The black ink flowed from the tip as I applied pressure onto the lined paper. My experiences would be heard soon. This action was something unique. It felt important, defying fate. It felt like sympathy, some form of unspoken understanding. Perhaps I felt like the horseshoe crab. Overturned, vulnerable, exposing a soft underbelly, a place where spears may strike. 

Appearances can be deceiving, the exterior a mere facade, sheltering a gentle facet of one’s being. I was there for the horseshoe crab when it needed someone to help it. Now, I needed someone to help me up off the ground and put me in the right direction. Somehow, things seemed brighter, as I looked at the serene deep blue waters of the cove. Maybe things would become better. There’s beauty in everything, one simply needs to seek it out. I smiled gently, admiring the light. Grateful as the sun. As I began to walk away, my heavy boots leaving shallow indents in the soft sand, a phrase resonated in my mind. My mother’s voice. “Everything will be alright. . . . . Everything will be okay. . . "