Devil's Bridge, Indian Town Point, Antigua
The wind is full of itself. Nothing has stopped its journey up to this point, and it's going to hurl itself against this mass of land to prove that nothing can. And so it sends runners of spray ahead of the big waves it pushes, as if moving the greater body of water is too slow for its purpose. I committed myself when I came out onto this little peninsula, there is no shelter. A small arch lies hidden before me, the limestone carved out and eroded away by the sea, leaving a narrow bridge that thunders with each surge. I am alternately pushed along and held back, depending on my orientation to the gale. Wind and water are white noise as I shoot moments, steadying the tripod to minimize vibrations. So much salt is in the air that it must surely be tarnishing my gear, whitening my tan. I am impressed by the anger, caught up in the rage. Out here, there is no right or wrong. It’s all a big barometric pressure gradient. It’s just elements, one versus the other, there are no feelings to hurt. I wish I had the ability to throw my frustrations so recklessly. But I hold them in, until I can no more. It’s just the way I am. I stand in the face of it, wishing my doubts and uncertainties could fly away in that wind. But they won’t. I am on one side of a devil’s bridge, needing resolution, damned if I cross and damned if I don’t. I wish we could talk above the noise of emotions, without the force of righteousness that won’t move, or justifications that won’t stop. There is no agreement that stops the wind or relaxes the sea, it just ends. It’s so…futile. Fighting only diminishes us.