Old Man Dave - sad news.

Old Man Dave said:

"For most of my adult life I've been trying to fit into a society that has made littlie sense to me. And I have undoubtedly made even less sense to it. You see, I was born a hunter. Some folks are born musicians, or artists, or athletes. Others are born to make money, heal people, design buildings and bridges, tend bar and sail ships. There are those born to no particular calling at all, and slide through life untroubled by such pullings. Although I find it hard to believe that there are men (and women) born to be accountants, sell insurance, be ushers, or in general wear wing tip shoes, they are at least able to make their way in life. When they are out of a job they can, with a degree of assurance, run down to the unemployment office and ask "Have you got anything for me today?" There is no employment for blue water hunters; take my word for it.
I've tried all sorts of jobs, white collar, blue collar, no collar. I've even worn wing tip shoes. Every serious job I had ate me alive. The more money I made the bigger chunks it took out of me. Not chunks of flesh, I could have lived with that. What is taken cannot be seen with the naked eye. What is taken is pieces of the spirit, slices of the soul, cuts of the heart. What is taken is who you are.
In all my time spent in the ocean wilderness, it has never once asked for nor taken a piece of me. Quite the reverse: it has healed that which was wounded; it has given freely of its gifts and asks only that I pay close attention to it. Upon my entry into the ocean, it fills my spirit, cleanses my soul and repairs my tattered heart."

With aknowledgement to Carlos Eyles "The last of the blue water hunters"

"I was born a hunter" Old Man Dave

Click to expand...

devondave said:

For Dave . . .

Great Mother Ocean brought forth all life, it is my eternal home.
But I have been gone into strange worlds so long . . .
countries without currents, countries without tides, countries without depth.
I have forgotten how to live in the world that created me.
I can no longer breathe the water.
I am slow and I am clumsy, I have lost my grace.
But the deep indigo of the depths calls me like a loving mother . . .
return to the depths, return to the source, return to your nature.

Sometimes beneath the shimmering surface of my memory,
I sense the deeper memories of generation after generation of hunters.
For tens of thousands of years I have kept a faithful record of my hunting,
so the children of my children's children will know and remember.
And more permanent than any painted stone . . .
is the memory that lies at the heart of my every cell,
the memory of my hunting, the history of my tribe.
And when I wake beneath the modern sky,
full of smoke and sound.
as from a dream I believe I lost my way back.
For I cannot forget I am a hunter and I am from a race of hunters,
and there is no place for hunters in this time.

Click to expand...