After dinner, the conversation went something like this.
“There’s gonna be a full moon tomorrow morning, setting right before sunrise. Conditions should be perfect for a shot I have in mind of the moon setting over the gulf, in twilight, up at Crystal River beach by the pier. Wanna go with me?” This is not really an invitation. I want him to go with me – mostly because I’m a wimp when it comes to adventures in the dark by myself. But he knows exactly what I mean, so I don’t need to be direct.
“It’s a long way out there,” he says, cleverly dodging the question. “We’ll need to leave the house by about 5:30, out of bed by 5:00.” That’s a strategy he’s had some success with – casually pointing out the flaws in my plan in the hope that I will realize my folly and withdraw the request. Problem solved. Back to his Castle rerun.
But I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. “We can leave at 6:00. It only takes about 15 minutes to get to Fort Island Trail. Maybe another 20 minutes out to the water. And I’ll be quick once we get there. I know the exact shot I’m looking for.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“Maybe I’ll just see how I feel when I wake up.” Check-mate. No commitment, decision postponed.
As it turns out, it was all moot. Heavy fog obscured both sun and moon at curtain time. Instead, I went by myself to my favorite sunrise spot and found this treasure. A low-lying backlit fog bank to my east, stained pink-orange by early morning sun, was spilling that soft light everywhere. For the past several winters, I’ve been trying to capture what my mind sees when I look up at these lacy branches, limbs adorned with ball moss. Maybe things work out better when you just go with the flow.
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