The absurdity of “average” hit me today, whilst filling in a survey in a magazine that encouraged me to compare myself to the average Canadian. How pointless the mathematical average of thoughts, of lifestyles, of daily routines?!
Later today I go down to the floats and shoot some pictures.
The floats are where I go when my eyes need waking up. Replete with every form and texture and colour and state of growth or decay. Gentle knocking and creaking of docks on pilings, lap of seawater, splutter of bilge water pump, elegant bowline curves, reflections of every depth and colour – this is a space where the undersea universe mingles with human industry, and I think of this as some complex and difficult and tragicomic relationship. Kelp fronds and harbour seals float up from above, seabirds squawk obscenities, barnacles tongue the passing nutrients from the water (this you have to look closely for, and your shadow passing over will zip them tight shut!) And dangling from beams, a gazillion or so human devices all crafted to lure fish from their universe into ours. I know the names of very few, but I know they each have names, like the boats themselves. This seems appropriate.
Time and weather writes a different story on every inch here. Averages be damned.