Hydrosexual Stephen Davis (he snow skis, plays ice hockey, surfs, kite surfs, paddleboards [the open ocean version], and, well, swims) was working with me twenty five miles away from this secret (and infrequent) surf spot north of Port Townsend when he got a call from… (EDIT- Evidently the person making the call, the person in the photograph, responded negatively to the possibility that a few people might associate him, and his name, with any sort of publicity involving, well, I’m not clear on this; I haven’t spoken with the now-unnamed person, and probably won’t. But, if you haven’t read this post previously, you may never know. EDITED OUT), telling him the winds were perfect on the Straits. It was already past seven, with little or no wind on the finger of Puget Sound where we were painting. “You better go,” I must have said, “and now;” and he did; arriving this close to sundown, close enough to snap a series of photos of unnamed kite-surfer, already in the midst of what turned out to be a magically shared and mystical experience. With people yelling, waving, and pointing, the mystery kiter had kite-surfed close to a passing pod of Orcas beyond the surfline. The yelling and pointing and waving was being done by a group of people holding a Straits-side memorial for a recently departed 94 year old woman. The kiter felt compelled to surf close to the pod (not TOO close). Amazing. AND there was this unusually spectacular sunset. Though Stephen didn’t see the pod of whales, he was, later, coming in by the light from vehicles and the one light in the parking lot, wrapping up the lines and organizing the gear, surprised when a woman from the memorial party thanked him for gliding, flying across the waves… as if he, the other kite-surfer, the whales, the sunset, were all part of the ceremony.
Who’s to say where, when, or why magic sails in?
Being part of that possibly-Cosmically-arranged event surely added to the magic for Steve and his friend.