San Francisco does this thing, this cruel, beautiful thing, where it gives you the Golden Gate Bridge and then takes it away. Not entirely. Just enough. The fog rolls in like it has somewhere better to be but decided to fuck with you first, wrapping that iconic span in gray wool, turning one of the most photographed structures on Earth into a ghost, a suggestion, a maybe.
And here’s this guy on Baker Beach, fishing. Casting his line into the Pacific like he’s got all the time in the world, like the bridge being there or not being there makes no difference whatsoever. Tolstoy knew something about this, about the quiet dignity of doing something completely pointless with complete commitment.
Fishing is a stupid occupation.
It’s also possibly the sanest thing any of us can do.
The bridge is there. You know it’s there. You can see just enough of it through the fog to confirm its existence, but not enough to Facebook it into oblivion like every other tourist with a phone and an opinion. The fog makes you earn it. It makes you wait. It makes you stand on this beach with the cold Pacific wind cutting through your shitty jacket and wonder if maybe not seeing the whole thing is actually seeing it better.
He liked fishing and seemed to take pride in being able to like such a stupid occupation.
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina