Adventure: Same Place, Same Time

I never wanted to be Batman. There was a brief period of wanting to be Spider-Man. A friend had the little plastic thing you strapped to your wrist that shot fake web. That was cool, for a while, until it broke. I was more of a fringe guy. Hawkman, Green Lantern, but never Robin. What I did take from Batman was “Same Bat time, same bat channel.” And I also took that no one worked out during that era. The Batman on TV looked like my dad. Pudgey, no definition. The Batman on TV ate a steak every night and probably chased it with cocktails in a fancy house in the hills.

My dad owned a swamp.

Returning to the same place at the same time is an interesting approach that is more about study than photography. Looking for subtle differences or moments that vary from day to day. I’ve been photographing this location for thirty years. I’ve photographed it with film, digital, 35mm, 6×6, 6×9, iPhone, APS-C, full frame, you name it. Yesterday, I knew I had to return and photograph it again. I go at noon. Over my lunch break.

The wind is up. The water is hovering just below 65 degrees, but it’s clear and running near high tide. There are five empty parking slots in the dirt lot. The last car in, which belongs to a fisherman pushing 350lbs, sits diagonal for some reason. He’s wearing an orange hat, like a safety hat, but there is no denying his presence. He sits between huge blocks of cut stone. A soft, round counter to the chiseled sculptures. He has a stain on his shirt just left of center. Best guess, mustard. A grandfather walks up with his grandson, rod and reel loaded with a trailing line of hooks. The old man has bare feet, soft feet, not used to the rocky surface. He steps gingerly. The small boy is excited. As the old man casts it’s apparent he is out of practice. Small water droplets leave the line and blow into my face and upper body. I’ve walked here, so it feels nice.

A 288 Commander Sea Fox leaves the harbor heading straight into the wind—three women on board. The captain waves to me. Is it a friendly wave she does to everyone, or is it more? I can’t tell, but hold my wave to see what happens. She keeps waving, but it’s more of a surprise when someone waves back. Hold it any longer, and it might seem creepy. Her passengers sit in front of the console, but as soon as the boat leaves the calm of the harbor, they begin to take spray over the bow, forcing them to move back.

Turning north, I walk to the end of the jetty. Two rods spaced on the beach. Six people at the end of the jetty, a couple too old to be posing for Instagram, do just that. Two others move and pose, and two teen boys hold rods and reels, but spend the entire time staring into their phones, too. The curse follows us, even at the edges of the continent. The women wear flipflops and have tattoos on their feet. Recent pedicures, bright red nails, stepping from stone to stone. They are happy. A couple, maybe, or just friends, but they emit no stress, only happiness. They move from side to side, posing, but in the old-fashioned way. A recording of this time and place, nothing for the algorithm.

Walking back through the parking lot, I see the couple who stayed below us the night before. A red Toyota Highlander. He wears a blue t-shirt, gray shorts, trainers, and blue sunglasses. They could only find a hotel for one night. It wasn’t that there weren’t rooms available at other locations, but the prices were too high. The rumor is that one of our old spots is now $1500 per night. We hear that many of the visitors are now coming for day trips only. The hotels finally finding the limit of what people will endure. I miss my van. Leaving the beach, I resume my Spanish lessons and walk back home.