As I entered, I could hear the sound of women singing sweetly from windows and shutters swung open at the second floors, behind thick, sun baked, adobe walls. They sang rhythmically to the thump of their irons on their flat ironing boards, finishing up the days laundry. Fresh, white linens, colorful shirts, and fishing trousers were hung from lines strung cooperatively from neighboring window to window. They giggled and hid themselves from me as they snuck a peak at "the mister" stumbling across the cobblestones.
The air was alive with the simple pleasures of the timeless life they lived there.
I wandered down lanes mysteriously empty, filled only with a couple of fishing boats cradled at wide places along the way, harbored there, momentarily, for repairs. The boats were hand built, with strong, brightly painted wooden planks, yet light enough to be handled by capable oarsmen. Olive wood, from the nearby hills, is used to fashion the chain plates, rub rails, oars and locks. I inspected these features and found them well worn from decades of use, but they remained extraordinarily serviceable. The boats are maintained well, using methods passed down from their grandfathers, fathers. The boats there live long, lasting well beyond single lifetimes.
The men were at sea, fishing away this day, in the soft sun, indebted only to the breeze that filled their sails and fish that found their nets.
As I made my way deeper into the little city. I found fat cats lying there in the sun waiting for the fishy feast to come. I heard the light laughter of a child, just beyond my sight.
As I rounded a bend in the lane a young man of about nine years of age, dressed in a Greek fishing hat, a white frock and flowing pantaloons ran by, laughing and shouting. He was wearing a dark blue naval officers coat with shinny buttons and a red neckerchief. I saw a wisdom in his eyes and a confidence in his gate well beyond his obvious years.
As I rounded a bend in the lane a young man of about nine years of age, dressed in a Greek fishing hat, a white frock and flowing pantaloons ran by, laughing and shouting. He was wearing a dark blue naval officers coat with shinny buttons and a red neckerchief. I saw a wisdom in his eyes and a confidence in his gate well beyond his obvious years.
His young voice called out to me as he passed by---------
"HEY MISTER, HAVE YOU TRIED TO CATCH A BIRD BENEATH THE SHORT RIVER BRIDGE?"
I shook my head, no.
"YOU CAN'T!"
He laughed out loud!
The shutters and the windows suddenly swung shut and the lovely songs in the air were gone! A new kind of quiet shouted out for me to listen. The sea slapped sounds just beyond, as the waves and wind began to build. The seabirds cackled and called. The fat cats meowed and purred and whined as I passed them by. I could feel the warm wind whirling between the buildings and up the lane; now, being cooled, by waters and the shade of a curious arched bridge making it's way into my view. I climbed to the top of the arched bridge and found an inscription carved into the keystone of the bridges handrail.
"BREIS FLUMEN PONS PONTIS"
The experience on the bridge and the scene below and all around was endless and beguiling. I looked straight down into a life, unto itself, in microcosm! A little stream formed from nothing but moist earth, ferns and water plants. Then, a little trickle, from under a leaf came forth, hardly more than a droplet of water. It was being celebrated all around with great quiet fanfare.
Life was born there.
I noticed little fish swimming in the new formed stream, eating flies emerging from the short little river. The river flowed from nothing, to something, then under the bridge and out to the sea, that lay, but a moment away. Larger fish hid themselves in the shadows of the bridge waiting for their daily meal. Ospreys plied the sky above for their earnings. Bull frogs rested on flat rocks in the sun, waiting for an errant morsel to fly by. A "big ole" bull snake slide through the grassy area's on full alert. The Heron and Bittern made their way there from time to time to ply their trade as well.
I noticed little fish swimming in the new formed stream, eating flies emerging from the short little river. The river flowed from nothing, to something, then under the bridge and out to the sea, that lay, but a moment away. Larger fish hid themselves in the shadows of the bridge waiting for their daily meal. Ospreys plied the sky above for their earnings. Bull frogs rested on flat rocks in the sun, waiting for an errant morsel to fly by. A "big ole" bull snake slide through the grassy area's on full alert. The Heron and Bittern made their way there from time to time to ply their trade as well.
The swallows----- Oh! -----The swallows. The swallows made their homes of mud and twigs gathered from the river below that were then hung there attached under the bridge.
The swallows made a good living on the bugs that rose from the stream below. The bugs hatch early afternoon and the swallows swoop down, float over them, spin about for a catch and then fly up to their nests to feed their young ones. The fish just down river jump clear from the water, growing larger and wiser at each bite.
Life from nothing, to something and then, to even more.
I wondered for a moment if, somehow, I could get into the act. If, I could find a fly pole and line and a bit of feather, I would try my luck at fooling one of these fish into biting my bait. I could then make a meal for myself in this world where all things seemed possible.
I looked to my right and there, leaning up against a nearby adobe wall was a very old, time tested, bamboo cane pole, with a line and a fly tied just exactly like the ones flying about below the short river bridge!
Now, the pole wasn't like an American made split bamboo work of art from the forty's. NO! NO! It was just simply a fine straight bamboo pole with the ridges sanded down some, with a handle made out of an olive wood dummy pin. This pole had no eyelets or a reel to string and hold the line. The line was just simply tied to the limber end of the pole with an "improved cinch knot."
The line itself was from the very long tail of a horse. The first length was about a meter long and maybe four or five hairs thick, all spun together. The next section was maybe three strands of horse hair, then two strands, and finally, just one hair thick for a short, horse hair, hard to see, leader. All the hairs tied together, end to end, made a pretty good, long, tapered line to dangle beneath the short river bridge.
The whole lash up, counting the pole and all, was still short enough to raise up a catch and flop it out on the cobblestones. Anything that might bite and hang on to the feathery bait without a hook hidden inside to hold the catch to would be deserving of being caught and ate. I examined the bug closely and I swear it was an exact match to an original live type! If it had a hook hidden away, it would have not fooled a one of those spectacular living creatures there below the bridge.
BY NOW, YOU MUST KNOW THIS IS A STORY ABOUT EVERYTHING!
I sent my bait floating down over the keystone inscribed handrail and the swallows went wild over the thing. Oh, those swallows! They were mad as they could be for the bait. They swooped down, flew up, spun around, and dive bombed my line till I thought I might lose my whole set up. Not once was I able to get at the water for the fish with the awful fuss from those swallows.
I became transfixed and I commited myself. I was compelled to catch one of those swallows!
OH, THOSE SWALLOWS!
If I could just float my bait right. I flew my bait fly side to side. I learned to make it appear to spin. I flew it up and down. I waited till the sea breeze and a wave corresponded just right to lift the fly from gravity, entirely, and danced it on thin air exactly as the other live ones were doing. I tried snapping the end like a whip at them. I tried tangling them in the line. I tried snagging their beaks like you do with pike or a turtle. I could not get a decent bite to save my ever loving soul!
Just about the time I was thinking about forgetting my manners altogether and rigging up a treble hook fashioned out of a piece of wire found near a downspout; I sensed a presence nearly on top of me.
It was a wise old fisherman towering over me. He was wearing a Greek hat and flowing shirt and pants with a captains naval coat curiously similar to the look of the young man I had met earlier.
He spoke in an octave lower than you would expect from God himself! It was lower than you could tune a base guitar even if the strings drooped below the frets and neck.
His blue green all knowing eyes burned in on mine. He impatiently and omnisciently boomed the question to me.
"HAVE YOU TRIED TO CATCH A BIRD BENEATH THE SHORT RIVER BRIDGE?"
Embarrassed, I tried to return the pole to the place I had found it, without him noticing.
Why no, "I haven't" I lied.
"YOU CAN'T!"
he said,
His eyes watered up to a twinkle.
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