“The sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours …
For this, for everything, we are out of tune.” (William Wordsworth, 1770-1850.)
For the people of the Gulf and the region – watching some of the most toxic pollutants known to man, being sprayed to disperse one of the most toxic pollutants known to man, unleashed as a result of man’s fallibility, in a near-global addiction to consumerism – it must be an environmental apocalypse now. One dispersant Corexit 9500, is four times as toxic as oil, and also disrupts the reproductive systems of organisms.
There is magic about those sun-sparkled coasts, translucent, shimmering, sapphire sea, later turning peach, apricot, deep blush, then seeming near blackberry as the sun falls and the dusk, then dark, takes over. Then the great pelicans sit sentry, on remains of old breakwaters, sillhouetted against the moon’s silvered light.
An all time memory is of the Mexican coast on the Gulf. One day remains apart, on some special mental shelf for treasures, oft taken down, wondered at, minutely re-savoured. Four of us hired a boat for the day, the others wanted to fish for marlin, I to relish the glittering ocean and sun. Lying below the little open wheelhouse, the old, toothless boatman and I quickly formed a bond. His boat was his life, he was an extention of it and it of him. His eyesight was phenominal. “Look, look”, he’d say, pointing somewhere into the distant horizon: “tuna ..” I could see nothing, but a few miles towards the spot, sure enough, the ocean boiled and churned with the great shoal.
Shark fins often glided along side the boat, their sleek elegance visible below the surface.