Friday, January 17, 2014

Winter In Marathon

I seem to have lost track of the weather lately. When I lived on a boat weather and tides were the dominant features of daily life. Now, in a house securely anchored to the ground by nine pilings, I go out into cold windy weather and have no clue what's going to hit me. This lackadaisical attitude earned me a very cold walk with my dog yesterday morning. I deserved the pain.

My job was to deliver my wife to her job in Marathon as she was to be picked up after work by one of her girlfriends who had organized a birthday trip to Puerto Rico for a few days. Nice for her, the forecast for Vieques is 85 by day and 75 by night until she gets back. Marathon was sixty yesterday morning after we said goodbye and Cheyenne and I took off for an icebound stroll.

The north wind off the Gulf of Mexico was biting cold, plus it had the added effect of filling the north shore with seaweed.

These conditions are not conducive to fishing which was apparently at a standstill.

They are a big industry in this town.

Check out the miles of lobster pots and piles of colorful buoys.

Cheyenne surprised me by making like she wanted to board a fishing boat. I figured it was the smell of fish rather than the lifestyle she craved.

Aside from a local inhabitant delicately walking on water there was no life to be seen in the idled fleet. Idle yes, but picturesque nonetheless.

And there went the sole sign of life. I'm telling the breeze packs the seaweed solid. Not solid enough for Cheyenne and I to risk it, but it was a well matted carpet of weed.

We strolled past the Keys Fisheries restaurant, which I recommend if you are nearby at feeding time. In this case I wasn't but I enjoyed the juxtaposition of the shark, always feared as a limb eater, and the sign. Sharks play to our deepest most primal fears, yet we humans murder far more of them than they of us. They are endangered, we unfortunately aren't. Well, perhaps it's fortunate else I wouldn't be here among the seven billion.

Further up the street the gated community, well protected from unannounced visits by local working stiffs was as dead as the fishing fleet.

They had a nice cheap plastic No Trespassing sign on the gate, similar to this one below, which encouraged passersby not to trespass onto the very desireable lobster pot assembly area.

Too much excitement for young Cheyenne. We got home eventually and she had but one thing on her mind. Well two actually...

...sunbathing (in the shade) and sleep. Good dog.