Fishin'

Netarts, Oregon

The evening had been a quilt of fog, but as the tide had slipped away the air had cleared into an almost reverent calm. There had been a young boy in the distance who had cast again and again into the open expanse, patient and steady, the rhythm of his movements in harmony with the retreating water. Though he had never caught a thing, the scene had felt complete—an intimate moment of quiet waiting, where presence had mattered more than success and the bay itself had seemed to hold its breath in gentle company.