The language of the sea is difficult to learn. It takes more than a random voyager to crack its vast mystery.
For instance, a single day in the middle of May renders a jacket useless and begs for the swimming trunks in the back of your drawer. Or a hike with ripped sneakers, jeans, and a film camera. And, perhaps, a wicker basket full of bread, cheese, and sparkling wine.
Editor’s note: These photos were first published in Vancouver 2015: Part 3. I’ve since returned to the photos to edit them differently, to break them apart into smaller packets, and to write about them from a different perspective.
The sun glistens above with not a cloud in sight and the elegant yachts float below in the warming spring air. Perhaps a line is cast, ready to pull in the evening’s dinner. Or the whales come by to gloat their grandeur.
Where, then, comes the need for a lighthouse?
A random voyager can only assume. Assume the sea has a different language. Assume the sea has a temper. Assume the sea is unanswered.
For surely there must be a need for a light in the fog.
Or maybe the time for that need has long since passed. Maybe the lighthouse stands by mere symbolism — a reminder of the sea’s personality.
A reminder that, across humanity, we’re all searching for a light. A light within; a light without. Somewhere. Anywhere.