Mike Parsons
@mikep_lbi
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Retired software engineer. I walk, write and ponder life's mysteries. My wife and I live alone on an Island off the coast of Newfoundland. I wrote a book.
Little Bay Islands, NL
Joined June 2022
I just finished up another book I wrote as a series of chapters over on Facebook. It is a resettlement love story. You can read it here 😀
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The dory awaits, a cradle of yellow wood resting on the still, dark water. Dawn is a whisper, a promise barely spoken, yet the sky above Gull Rock is already blushing a delicate rose. The air hangs thick and silent, the only sound the gentle lapping of water against the wharf, a rhythm as old as time itself. This harbour, once bustling, now holds a quietude that sinks deep into the soul. Resettled, they say. But some roots run deeper than any Government policy, any regrettable departure. Some roots cling to the rocks and the salt-laced wind. With a gentle push, I’m away. The paddles dip into the water, their movements a meditation. Each pull is effortless, a conversation between wood and water, muscle and memory. The harbour, still asleep, mirrors the pre-dawn sky. The scent of salt and spruce mingles with the faint, lingering aroma of wood smoke from last night's fire. It is a perfume unique to this place, to this life – the perfume of Little Bay Islands. Out through Shoal Tickle, the narrow passage opens like a gateway to the vastness beyond. The dory glides through, a silent vessel in a world holding its breath. It’s a passage, not just of water, but of spirit. A leaving behind of the mundane, a crossing into a realm of ancient rhythms and primal connection. The Black Rock fishing ground. Not even a kilometer from my wharf. A bounty so close, a gift so readily given. This is not mere convenience; it is a testament to the abundance that surrounds us, a reminder that the ocean, in her vastness, still holds pockets of unimaginable generosity. I store the paddles, the dory settling into a gentle rocking. The traditional lead jigger, heavy in my hand, feels like an extension of my own being. It's a tool, yes, but also a link to generations past, to those who fished these same waters, who felt this same anticipation. Down it goes, sinking through the green depths, a silver thread connecting me to the unseen world below. The line, taut in my hand, is a living thing. I feel the subtle shifts, the whispers of current, the secrets of the deep. And then… a tug. Not violent, but firm, insistent. A life, drawn to my offering. The cod. The battle, if it can be called that, is brief and respectful. There is no struggle for dominance, but a shared dance between predator and prey, a connection forged in the ancient contract of survival. Hand over hand, I haul the line, feeling the weight of the fish, the strength of its will. And then, it breaks the surface, a flash of its white belly in the growing light. Into the dory it comes, a magnificent specimen, its skin gleaming like a mosaic of ocean jewels. A single cod, just one. Enough. More than enough. This is not about greed, about taking all that can be taken. It is about sustenance, about gratitude, about honoring the delicate balance of this wild, beautiful place. The ocean provides, always. That's an old truth and one that must be remembered. The sun crests the horizon, painting the water with streaks of gold and amber. The waves, gentle and rhythmic, slap against the wooden hull of the dory, a lullaby of the sea. I take a deep breath, the salty air filling my lungs, cleansing, invigorating. A sip of hot coffee from my thermos warms me from the inside out, a simple pleasure amplified by the vastness around me. Gratitude. It rises within me like the tide, a profound and overwhelming sense of connection to this place, to this life. Little Bay Islands. Not just a place on a map, but a state of being. A place where time slows, where the soul expands, where the simple act of catching a fish can become a communion with the divine. To be here, to witness this sunrise, to feel the weight of the cod in the bottom of my dory, to breathe this air… it is a privilege beyond measure. It is a reminder that true wealth lies not in things acquired, but in the richness of experience, in the connection to nature, in the simple, profound joy of being alive. This is a feeling that goes far, far beyond anything that can be put into words. This place, Little Bay Islands, it is inside of me, and that is where it always will be.
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On this beautiful Sunday morning, less us give thanks for what we have, not complain about what we lack.
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The sun comes up, not gentle, but a fierce, red knowing. It touches the iceberg – a great, cold wanderer from the north – and for a moment, the two are held in balance. Fire and ice. The old world, and the one coming on. Out here on the water, off Little Bay Islands, the sea holds it all. The deep, dark memory of the glacier's birth, and the long, slow journey south. The work of ages, on display for any who have eyes to see. I sit in my kayak, here, and feel the weight of it. The beauty, yes, but also the change. The ice, a reminder of what's passing, of what we may not hold. The sun, a constant, rising and falling on a world that's both enduring and fragile. And the bird, that single cry flung out across the water – is it a lament, or a defiance? Maybe both. We live in the midst of it, this beauty, this loss, this turning. And we belong to it, as surely as that berg belongs to the sea, as surely as the light belongs to the dawn. There's a grace in knowing that, a hard-won peace, in the face of what we cannot keep.
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The swing set stands. Silent. A green monument to a joy that is no longer here. The snow, a blank page, undisturbed, stretches out to the frozen harbour. Little Bay Islands, hushed. Holding its breath. And these chains, hanging limp and heavy – they used to sing, didn't they? With the push of small feet, the arc of laughter flung towards the sky. But now, only the wind whispers through the empty spaces. A low, mournful song. Tell me, what is a community without the bright chaos of children? A garden untended. A melody missing its heart notes. This stillness. This beautiful, aching emptiness. It settles, like the snow, upon everything. A reminder of what’s been lost, of the echoes that linger where small, bright voices once played. A world waiting, perhaps, for a different kind of spring.
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