Notes from the Harbor
At the shore, I often consider the antagonistic relationship between water and land. It is probably reproducing the patriarchy here to frame this as a competition, a fight. Consider this a first step towards thinking more deeply.
When I observe the sea, battering and bashing in waves upon the shore, I cannot help but wonder if there is some enmity there, some grudge. Does my mother the sea batter my father the land in hopes of my relinquishment? Will there come a day when the waves cease, after I finally return to those deeps? These are my thoughts when I walk in many beaches. I pile stone upon stone to mark my presence, but also to provide targets, goals, an aspiration for the water to reach this high and knock it over.
Walking on the Atlantic coast of Shetland, I came to understand that there is a third player in this game. As we have discussed earlier, Shetland has no trees. Of course, directly on the coast trees would provide no shelter, and perhaps the 50 mph gusts are reasons there are few trees. The hundred thousand sheep are another reason, and the peat a third. Still, trees to stop the wind might we welcome now. I lean into the wind, but it is inconstant. The gusts that support me this moment die out and I fall forward the next. If you look on the surface of the small freshwater ponds, you can see evidence of these gusts, waves of upset breaking the small regular peaks of the typical chop.
The wind, forgotten third player in the ancient competition. If I was feeling (more) pretentious, I’d talk about the dialectic and frame it as a synthesis. Less present than the water or land, more fickle. If sea and land are mother and father, who is the air? The human mind privileges binaries, but the world rarely does; the ones we find tend to be artifacts of our perception, our consideration, moreso than actual things in themselves. In other words, your discovery of a binary says more about you and your ontology than about the split you believe you’ve found. The wind gives us the waves, the waves are how my mother the sea expresses her fury upon my father the land. Is the wind the intermediary? A fickle child, darting between parents seeking approval? Did it predate all, giving shape to the water?
Standing in the inconstant gale, I am speckled in salt spray. Mother sea send spies, scouting the land directly. The peat land, undercut- we observe a sea tunnel leading to a geodh that’s fully surrounded by turf. I ask: “did we just walk over a land arch that could collapse into the sea at any moment?” Upon hearing “yes” from the guide, I thank him for not telling me until after I was over it. I stay clear of the edge of the geodh, as much as I’d like to see the tunnel leading out, it is not worth tempting either of my parents.
It is difficult to capture the wind at all, even to record its presence. Watch the shadows of the clouds race across the land.
A dog, walking by, spits out a rock at my feet. His owner looks down, at the rock. Looks at me. Walks on, without a word. I make a mental note to post more photos of ghost dogs on my blog.
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