Okay, Dream People, this morning's nap dream ~ pretty simple; need some clues.
I'm walking or driving slowly south on a dirt road along the NW corner of an Island that seems like Jamaica. The branches off the road, into heavy ironwood trees, split off on the right, and head to little cabins of the locals, or beach. I pick one near the end of the road and walk out to the beach, and it's a large cove with quite a few Carib people, and they welcome me; even tho I'm white, it's friendly; but the surf (the reason I'm there) is too large for Jamaica. I think that immediately, realizing these waves can't be coming from the Mexican west, and the Dream Guys smack me on the back of the head and say get on with it.
I guess they could be hurricane surf.
Maybe that's it.
The sky is pretty gray. Pretty and pretty, I mean.
I watch some guys surf great, studying the water and shelf, and head over to the right wall of rock edging the cove. You can walk along the ledge rock over there above the water, and get out parallel to the surf. The water is very blue green. Clear and clean, and blue green, but mostly this tart emerald green, when you're seeing through it. Sometimes this is partly reflected light from the airy-fairy foliage of the shore ironwoods; I've seen it before, and there are more trees on this cliff above us.
The cliff is dark brown, dark reddish brown aggregate rock, pebbly and sandy, with some mustard-brown sandy streaks in it. As we stand along it, me there with a couple of very dark skinned Jamaican guys, larger waves come by in the cove; and I realize how nice their color and clothes look against the green water. Naturlich, it reminds me of a Degas I've seen; At The Races I think, that uses those colors. It's warm, and everything feels good. The waves are getting higher, much taller, and really starting to tube.
As the pipes roll by us, they start climbing the seaward cliff to my right
But the very tippy-tip of the translucent wave stays up over head on the dark wall, the curl of the break, like it is viscously attached to that wall, and it just rolls right by us, over and by us and weakly past us, shaking us but not washing us off the walk, as you would expect. It's a very large (8-9 ft?) wave, but they just curl over the top of us, like a glass roof. I smile hard. Laugh. It's amazing.
I turn and look at the Jammer to my right, and he stretches out his arms and mimics the wave and smiles. He's used to doing this.
Other waves come by and over us, always translucent and tipped white, like being inside the curl; like being underneath or behind a clear waterfall, and as I look up at the rock the edge of the wave curls along it, wetting it, but washing right over us.
(Of course, if what I'm describing is making sense, you're correct, it is impossible. You'd be washed off the ledge and banged up good in seconds.)
Nonetheless, watching the tip and top shelf of these large waves move from right to left above us on the wall is a pretty fascinating experience. Besides being colorful to the extreme, it's breathtaking. Exhilarating, and it should be dangerous, but it's not.
Kind of "discovered."
The wave sets decrease, and we notice looking out at the cove that the surfers are all in, because something is different, and the rhythmic parallel waves have turned to more chop; and in the chop there, the green and white cake-frosting foam, we realize there are a hundred or so dorsal fins. They are sharks. A mass of sharks. Like reef sharks, which are not that big; probably maxing at five feet. No one is alarmed, on the beach or here, which I take as a good sign, because the shark-o-rinis are obviously here for some natural reason or circumstance, and reef sharks are harmless. But then the guy to my left traps one in a pool of rocks and draws a knife and begins to cut it apart. No one else is doing that. I am thinking I should stop him, but this is not my country or culture or yadda yadda. I mean if he's doing it for the heck of it, that's one thing, but if it's their customary food source, that's another. So I mind my own business, go back to the sandy cove, and all along the way I'm just amazed at maybe two hundred sharks bobbing in this tiny shallow area.
Back on the beach a guy tells me there's a guy across the river in the inlet who sells hash, and for some reason I go there, even though I don't smoke, oh yah because the beach guy said he was an Englishman and I thought I would ask him about the sharks. When I got there, waded across the river and up to his hut, he was cooking; and I asked him about the sharks but he'd never seen them before. I led him out onto his lanai, and showed them to him through the trees, because he sort of didn't believe it.
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Now, see here ~ I'm betting this is a meaningless dream.
A tourist dream.
Yes?
No? |
