The fireman walks down to the dock, where the fisherman adjusts his line every few minutes. I see the fireman asking the fisherman questions. The fireman seems concerned, looking towards me as he talks.
You see, I’ve been taking photos of the firehouse, the river, the station’s flag, the freeway, a freeway bridge nestled right above the firehouse. I understand the fireman’s concern.
Also, I’ve been taking photos of the fisherman.
When I was taking pictures of him, I tell the fisherman, “I do art.” Just in case I use his image. He is cool about the whole thing. Maybe it’s fishing. Helps him. Calms things.
Fishing: The act, occupation, or diversion of catching fish.
I know nothing about fishing. Well, maybe a little. I mean I had a fishing pole as a kid, lead weights, salmon eggs in a jar, a few hooks, a green spool of line, plastic bobbers, red and white. I think I caught a carp once.
No one ever wondered what I was doing or for what reason I was doing it. Back then, I mean, when I was fishing.