The Gentle Water

A few years ago, before I headed out on my adventure around Croatia, I spent a morning wandering around Geneva. It was early, and the city had yet to wake up. I drove a few miles over to Lac Léman, a large lake that dominates the surrounding landscape. Street lights were starting to flutter off while the hum of the city steadily rose. I walked along a pier, listening as the waves lapped steadily against concrete below me. Across the lake on the opposite side stood a small lighthouse. A couple fishermen stood beside it, casting their lines out into the gentle water. It was so quiet, occasionally, conversation would float over on the wind. I didn’t understand them, but It gave me an interesting perspective on their early morning adventure.

As I stood there, enjoying myself, I noticed a sailboat silently sliding through the water, gliding in between us, heading out toward the center of the lake. I closed my eyes, picturing what their view would be. Looking both ways, a lighthouse with a few fishermen on one side, and on the other, a lone figure, enjoying a quiet morning, standing on the end of a pier in the middle of a waking city.

The Great and Black Expanse

Iceland- The lighthouse. A beacon on a stormy night. To those on land, it is a monument. A reminder of those who have perished on the waters. To those sailing out in the great and black expanse, it is a savior, A reminder that there is someone watching over them, keeping them safe, giving them hope.

The Harbor

Down near the pier, the sun is low on the horizon, its golden rays cut short by an approaching storm. Despite the inclement weather, the men working on the pier don’t hesitate. Father and son work together methodically prepping their boat to head out for the evening. They move about coiling ropes, shifting nets, transporting fuel, doing all that is necessary for their night on the ocean -- that great and dark expanse.

The father watches his son, correcting his mistakes as his father had done for him, hoping that his son will be able to do the same, knowing that a simple life can be a rewarding life, but like the evening sun on the horizon, the old ways are slowly setting. Light is disappearing, fading into the night as large commercial fishing vessels move in. Competition is fierce, overfishing is rampant, and savings are drying up.

Surly fishermen slowly walk along the docks, away from their boats after a cold night on the ocean. The sound of their heavy footsteps ring hollow on the old wooden planks.

The old way of life is dying. It is a shrinking culture, trying to stay relevant, grasping at the way things have always been, but failing to realize that they will never be. It’s a losing battle. As the years pass by, fishing villages become smaller. Boats sit on land, rotting. Fishing nets piled high lay stagnant, the smell of the ocean fading as the seasons wear on.

Lighthouses sit unused as stoic reminders of the past. The outsides kept clean and maintained for the photo opportunities of thousands of tourists, eager to depart the bus and stare from afar, but walking closer and peering inside, old desks can be seen gathering dust, while chipped and faded paint on the walls gives away its true age.

Meanwhile, the fishermen go on doing the only thing they know how to do. They put food on the table for their family and provide a roof over their head. Their happiness isn’t based on how much money they make, but on being able to provide the things in life that make them feel needed, loved.

As the sun rises the following morning, so do their hopes and dreams. The catch is fresh in their mind and as they return to rest in their beds, the mind takes over, wandering throughout time and space, thinking about the future and what it holds.