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The convergence of land and oceanic paths …

Too much red wine was consumed last night so this morning’s jaunt that commenced at 5:20 had a silver lining; the early walk would help alleviate any throbbing dregs of an evening that Advil and a go-cup of really potent black coffee could only partially erase.

This was my first walkabout since a triumphant return from Charleston in mid week. Nearly 10 lbs. of speckled trout filets accompanied me on the way back to Charlotte. So in that respect, the time on the water in my fishing kayak was nothing short of a success.

Less joyous, however, was what was seen floating by as I lay at anchor along a tidal creek at Bowens Island; plastic bottles, the lid from a demolished cooler and a corner portion of a smashed polystyrene container.

Now, you’ve heard me whine ad nauseam about such flotsam. But the whining is well placed. The ocean, along with my treasured tidal creeks, are an extension of your and my paths. It saddens me to no end that both the dry land and saltwater routes suffer from the same inconsiderate treatment; none of this junk should be where it is. And beyond the debris that meanders by while I fish, that much more is seen lodged in the tall grasses that border the waterway. It detracts and to some degree spoils what is otherwise a glorious environment.

So as I traipsed about in the darkness from one side of Colony, Fairview and Sharon Roads to the other to retrieve and bag all manner of junk, my thoughts stayed on the sorry state of the tidal creeks. Both paths converge and in some ways are inseparable. One of these next trips I’m of a mind to keep the rods in the car and paddle up and down the fingerling creeks to capture and bag the menace that is oceanic litter. The fish I hope to catch deserve it.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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