The Punchbowl

I pass the last of the WWII remnants, two cement slabs waiting for barracks which were never built.   A few strides lead me into a thicket of trees and shrubs.  They provide an edge or line which divides one world from another, land and sea.  I stand a moment and then proceed until finding a place to watch the incoming tide bury the treacherous rocks of the Punchbowl a.k.a. The Devil’s Punchbowl.

I certainly understand the reason behind such a name.  Any vessel would meet its demise while landing here.  One so covert that captains, helmsmen and crew, would be lost to the sea.  Those who survive watch their ship being torn, ripped and smashed into tiny pieces.  They are shocked.  Shaken to the bone.  Legends and lore come to life, spreading rumors of ghosts and sinister forces.

It isn’t so today.  The sun is shining.  Its light shimmering across the waters.  A cool breeze mixes with warm air.  My eyes are closed.  Hands laced behind my head.  Comfortably seated in an extraordinary place.  I am at rest.

Later, much later, I rise and walk down to the water.

The Punchbowl

Wavelets splash the shore.
Ripples gently break.
Now standing beneath them asking,
Where is this one from?

Was it a far and distant land?
Was it an island or an atoll?
Possibly the Horn of Africa,
Or something much closer.

Did someone stand as I am?
Did she ask the same questions?
If we could see each other,
Would we say hello and wave?