“the fisherman”, a poem’s back story

“the fisherman”, a back story

I was alone on a beach, early morning, north of Santa Barbara. After days of driving rain, and waves that had pummeled the beaches and cliffs, it was now quiet. Covering the water was a grey and white mist, one that in time would yield and reveal the horizon. I wanted to share the day, writing a poem seemed a way.

Seated high on a sandstone outcropping at the mouth of a creek, I watched the waves rise, roll, and break on the lee side of a natural jetty. My eyes turned to a staircase of rocks in the calm shallows on the other side of the jetty line. There, just offshore, the tides had carved a pocket of deep water from the sand. The water was smooth as glass; no pen, no paper, I began to “write”.

It was a landscape early on, but then I conjured up a fisherman. He was from a faraway place. I imagined Michoacán, a place known for its’ distinct culture and its fishermen. He was a man who had once made a hard trek to a new life. He had worked the fields and orchards, learned the language, met a girl, fell in love, learned a trade, found his places, and built a family. 

With his wife’s blessing, he is there fishing on a precious day off. He loves the ocean; he loves to fish. He has been resilient in life, resourceful, and dedicated to his family. Life has not been easy, but he feels blessed. He is grateful. 

The nature of this man, his day, and life “imagined”, was informed by my early years working concrete with men like him, and by my life on, in, and near the ocean. As I settled in on him and the scene, I began to add my voice to the “writing”. I would find a phrase, a line or two, and repeat them out loud till I found another, committing them to memory.

Between walks, some swimming and forgetting, this “writing” took up most of the day. First, the lines came easy. As it grew harder to flesh out the story, I stalled for time by repeating out loud the “found” lines again and again, experimenting with changes.

This method helped me remember the lines till I wrote them down that night. I spent the next morning into an afternoon, adding and subtracting, honing, this way and that, to turn my memorized version into a written “final” draft.

As life would have it, some weeks after I had completed the final, final, final draft of “the fisherman”, I met a real fisherman on that same beach. 

He appeared from a canyon path nearby, carrying a rod and reel, a backpack over his right shoulder, a younger man and two boys following close behind. I waved and they waved back. He began to set up to fish. As in the poem, he was wearing a palm straw hat. I could not resist.

I approached them and introduced myself. The fisherman’s name was Forencio. The younger man was his son, Francisco, the boys, his grandsons. I did not want to distract Forencio from his work, so after a polite exchange, I began a conversation with Francisco. We covered a lot of ground in a short time.

Turns out, Forencio is originally from Michoacán. He has three sons, a daughter and three grandsons. He is known by his friends and family as a skilled fisherman. Of him, his son said that he has good luck catching big fish from the shore and that he generously shares his catch.

When Forencio was all set to begin fishing, he came over to visit. He shared a story about catching a giant halibut and another about a hammerhead shark. In my poem, I had imagined a giant halibut. (This was a good beach for halibut). I told him about my poem. He graciously posed for a photo and his son, Francisco, shared his mobile number with me.

When Forencio returned to climb the rocks to fish, I watched him as he turned to face the cliffs, then coil, rise and send his hooks, line, and bait soaring, in a lovely almost lilting floating arc beyond the rocks and waves. Somehow, in the watching of the casting, in the arc and sun reflecting, I missed his turning back to face the sea.

Once he settled in, he looked back at us and waved. Before I said goodbye to Francisco, I attached a copy of the poem and a photo of his dad to a text and sent it to him. I’ve yet to send him the final draft. I’ll wait till I can be sure I have my truly final version. Sometimes a poem is like a fish, you think you “have it” but then you realize, you have more work to do.