This tree is located on the far left of this photo, twice.
[daily log: walking, 2km; boating, 30km]
Day: June 26, 2021
Caveat: Fishing Report #(n+19)
Still no luck catching fish.
We left at just before 7 AM. The morning was extremely foggy. We motored out of the inlet at half-speed, because visibility was probably no more than about 200 yards. We gamely attempted to start trolling along the west side of Cemetery Island, just north of the north entrance to Port Saint Nicholas Inlet. I don’t know why Arthur has fixated on that location, these days. There have been a lot of commercial boats outside the entrance, but I am wondering if they are there simply because they’re being restricted there by the authorities. Certainly despite the number of boats we’ve seen there, I’ve not once, so far, seen much activity on the rear decks hauling in lines or fish.
We trolled past the north entrance, southward along the Coronados Islands, and past the south entrance, and down into Doyle Bay, where the Kelp Farm is. The sun finally started coming out, there. When the fog lifted at the entrance to Doyle Bay, Sunnahae Mountain was revealed.
We kept trolling all the way to Caldera bay, to the southwest. We caught some tiny sea bass. Nothing else.
Giving up, we fished for halibut under bright sun and in calm waters, at Caldera. We pulled up some bottom fish, but they too were small, and we sent them back.
We headed to the fuel dock, refueled the boat, and were home at around 12:30 pm. It was our longest outing so far, but no more fruitful, for all that.
Meanwhile, I have become increasingly unhappy and uncomfortable in the boat with Arthur. He is very, very difficult to communicate with: both at the level of “hearing” and at the level of “listening.”
At the level of “hearing” – well, we all know he has some hearing loss. I basically always must repeat myself several times, with any kind of statement longer than a simple “Yes,” “No,” or “Okay.” This in itself is exhausting and frustrating.
But on top of this, he insists on sticking his audiobooks (playing loudly on earbuds connected to his iPod) in his ears at any idle moment. So any kind of talk where I initiate has to be started with getting his attention, conveying that it’s important, and then waiting for him to fiddle with the “pause” on his iPod (a fairly drawn out procedure, sometimes). So I end up deciding very little is really that important to say. And I just sit in silence, and have a little mantra, now, “Only speak when spoken to….”
But even when he asks me a direct question, half the time he still fails to turn off his iPod, which means he can’t hear my answer, and it requires multiple repetitions, followed by him finally realizing he could maybe turn off the iPod, and my repeating it yet again.
This is all just about the “hearing” part.
But he’s a poor “listener” too. He often responds to my efforts at communication with sarcasm, strange non-sequitur humor, or even a condescending tone of “Of course,” followed by a repetition of what I’d just said as if it was his own idea.
Add to this the fact that with our poor results, he gets grumpy and frustrated and well… we all know how that can go.
I know there are cognitive issues here. I try to be patient. But I’m imperfect, and it’s getting more and more difficult.
I really don’t want to go out fishing with him anymore. It’s not fun. It’s stressful and actually lonely, punctuated with moments of stressful and comically incommunicative shouting. It’s as if I’m doing it alone, for all there’s any kind of companionship or friendship or camaraderie.
Year-to-date totals:
- Coho: 0
- Kings: 0
- Halibut: 0
- Other: 0
- Too-small fish sent home to mama: 8
- Downrigger weights left on the bottom of the sea: 1
Caveat: Poem #1791 “Six cats in Trieste”
ㅁ Six cats in Trieste in the blue wind off the cold Adriatic, off the snow-covered Alps weirdly visible on the northern horizon, I climbed the Scala dei Giganti, up the hill to the castle, around the back of the cathedral San Giusto, past the monument to the dead of world war two, down the stairs behind the ruins of the foundations of the roman theater; I saw six cats: one in the sun in a window; one on some grass, looking up at the first one; one on an abandoned, ratty-looking suitcase in a vacant lot, behind the stairs; one colored brown, hunting the blades of grass, staring at ghosts; one mewing in the dark shadow of a crumbling stone step; one sitting high up on the top of a wall that was covered with spikes to keep the pigeons away, but the spikes where broken off and the cat was comfortable.
– a free-form poem originally written in March, 2005, when I was visiting Trieste, Italy. I wrote it on paper at that time, then transcribed it into the blog a bit later, but I only gave it it’s own separate blog-entry in 2011, but I put it under the appropriate date. Anyway, I’m “republishing” it now, as one of my daily poems. Mostly, I republish these older poems in the series of daily poems out of some notion of completeness – at some point I decided that the daily poems would eventually encompass ALL my poems. Anyway, by dredging these poems out of my past, I can find an occasional respite from the need to come up with a new poem each and every day.