Old Man and the Sea

Rock pool adventures had been a big part of my childhood growing up as my father and I would spend most weekends at our local, favorite rocky beach and enquire within all crevasses, nooks and crannies. Whenever in Bali I loved doing the same from time to time and noted this day that I was by far the oldest of the rock pool adventurers as I had passed many young Balinese boys engaged in this very same endeavor, ceasing their exploration only briefly to offer the obligatory, "hello mister".

Rounding a large boulder that stood between me and any further rock hopping up the coast I came to a small half -moon beach which was maybe only fifty feet in length and it was completely smooth, devoid of anything except one solitary small set of foot prints that had started at the base of a very steep climb up the cliffs. Whose were they, I wondered? Thirty metres out in the water standing on a submerged rock was a man. He was fishing.

Feeling thirsty I thought I would taint the purity of this idyllic little beach with the imprint of my bum and take some refreshment from my water and bananas I had in my day pack. I thought the little man fishing would give me a relaxing interest as I did so.

After fifteen minutes or so of watching this languid scene of the man casting and retrieving his line, I was packing my water back into my bag when I noticed the old man now facing me with a look of interest. I raised my hand in acknowledgement of him and prepared to set off on further scrutiny of pooled water when he pointed to an area back toward the rock face behind me. Turning I began to seek out the object of his directions and saw nothing but his footprints and the rock wall. I turned back toward him holding my arms out and shrugging my shoulders in the universal signal of "I don't know." He gesticulated with more vigor and importance so I traipsed over to where his footprints ended in a small outcrop of rocks at the base of the cliff. There was a tiny pair of flip flops covering a fishing line with hook and sinker attached, nothing else. Was this chap asking me to join him in the water to fish, or wanting me simply to bring him another line? I took the hand line and raised it in the air and pointed first to it then myself. He nodded repeatedly with an accompanying big smile and I had to conclude this was in fact an invitation to go fishing.

I waded out to stand with the little old man. He had dark leathery skin that was traced with creases and folds that had been cemented by salt and sun and he came up to no higher than my arm pit. His balding head had two tufts of grey hair that stuck out from the side of his temples, and it looked to me as if he could flap these tufts at any time and just fly right away.

We didn't catch any fish but we stood there for two hours that day not understanding a word we said to each other, really only communicating with hand gestures and smiles. There were a lot of smiles.

So if ever you are walking along rocky beaches in Bali, do stop and look for a little old man fishing. With any luck you’ll see one. maybe not be the little old man I know, but I have a feeling give him the chance and he will welcome you into his world, for a little while anyway.

PS. To the person who flowered. "I consider myself flowered,and flattered, consider yourself chastised for not enabling a response."