Hunter of the Salt Plain

The salty air kisses my face, the breath of the sea thrown by the lap of the waves.

The boat sails on as I watch the horizon. The day wans and the sun burns low... steady in the afternoon swelter.

I scan the seas looking for the line of white, the sign of the reef.

There on the port side... I swing the tiller and set my sights on the line of salty wave born brine.

I stare down as anchor descends, once it bites I grasp my speargun, place my face in the water, lifting my head... I count, one, two, three deep breaths, calm like the water in the bay at the end of the day.

I don my goggles, and take the plunge.

Beaked parrot fish sail on by as I stiffen and sink like a stone. Mirror-scaled Jacks hug the reef's edge, moray smile there gaping gap-toothed grins from cracks in the corral.

I swim into the turquoises sheen, drift in gardens of corral cauldrons and soft coral trees. Hunting in the drift... of tidal memories.

Thanks for reading 🌿

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