From Silence Comes Silver The first step from out of the draping tarp brings a gasp to my lips and the taste of brine and wet pine to my tongue. At the same time a rush of steam follows me out from the polyester door. Its heat presses at my bare legs while the sea air encircles my neck. I hover in the entropic sensations, but the moment leaves as quickly as it arrived. In its absence, between surf-carved walls of sandstone and the evergreen sentinels atop them, amidst the uncountable stones of the rocky shore, I am met by a looming visitor. It drifts in slowly, rolling over the seafoam. A fog has arrived from the Juan de Fuca Strait to meet Cullite Cove, and me. Though the tide never tires and the water laps back and forth, the fog demands only silence. As if in response, the crash of the surf has muted, relaxed into a gentle lapping of foam and sediment. From the fog, I can see the sandstone outcrop. It calls to me, as if the songs of sirens echoed out from it. I break free from my reverie and turn to my bag, which rests against a large, bleached white driftwood. The trials of the trail have left it battered, with patches of mud and dirt across the canvas. I reach out to the top of it and detach a long tin cylinder that I strapped down with bungee cords. I open it and take out its contents – A fishing rod, diminutive in size, and a few other necessities – and sit down on the petrified bark to put the rod together. In those few minutes, I manage to drop a few hooks, forever lost in the array of stone and silt, but I triumph over my inexperience and the rod seems to gleam in the moonlight, a silver sword raised in victory. I head out, freshly armed and ready for adventure, toward my destination. From here, the sandstone is obscured by the fog, and I’m reminded of the island of Avalon of Arthurian legend. King Arthur had been ferried there to recover from his wounds. Maybe, in my own way, I am recovering as well. Although King Arthur had battled with blade and bow against human adversaries, I had been battling against rain, mud, and the aching blisters on the soles of my feet. As I approached, I realized with growing trepidation that my destination was harder to reach than I anticipated. The top of the sandstone was high – with the tide out and receding, the red belly of the outcrop was exposed, glistening with algae and dampened with seawater. To reach the top, I would need to traverse the wall, where the crashing of the waves had not reduced the rock to a sheer, vertical surface. I am determined to succeed, however, so when I reached the base, I did not hesitate to step up onto the steep wall. I felt the rough, grainy stone on my fingertips as I hugged the wall. The scratching of my boots, the movement of the water below as I got further out, away from the safety of the shoreline and into the mist. I was unsure that if I fell, the tide would push me back or take me out into the open water. The daring of the moment put my heart apace and a grin to my cheeks. The daredevilry was not to last. I am a nimble child, with reflexes honed by many trails and expeditions borne of play, and so I traverse the edge and scramble up onto the outcrop quickly. I rise from the earth and in that moment my shadow is not of a boy’s – but a man’s, strong and steadfast. I inhale the salty air and stand triumphant, a bulwark against uncertainty and fear. In the waters below, a small school of fish darts away as a foreign silhouette disturbs their meandering. My rod, a recent present to celebrate my tenth birthday, drifts on the water’s surface, free to find its own adventure. From the tent, out steps my father into the thickening fog.
