Midnight Suns, and Southbound Runs

                It may very well be a societal thing. Or perhaps it is just a question of practicality. We make better note of sunsets than of sunrises. Even a man like myself, who is proudly more of a morning person, I can recall more remarkable ends to the day than beginnings. It makes sense – we can sit around with friends, enjoying a bottle of wine or a beer. We can reflect on the events of the day, rather than be focussed on what is yet to come, what we have yet to do, what we have planned.

                It is perhaps this rarity of appreciation that lends weight to those dawns that we do remember; they stand out with a clarity of mind. Two such perfect daybreaks stand above all others to me: an arctic sun at midnight, and a Floridian beach looking East over the Atlantic.

                Brad and I had travelled north out of Lillehammer on the train, taking it as far as we could, to the end of the rail line in Bodo, Norway. Bodo, the railhead and seaport above the Arctic Circle, was not a picturesque town, at least not in terms of its architecture. The Nazi’s had laid waste to it when they had withdrawn from Norway during the War. Its beauty lay in its natural surroundings. Jagged fjords wended their way into icy mountain fastness’s off in the distance. The Gulf Stream kissed its shores, so that the early June air was temperate. The usual backpacker chores awaited us at the campground: laundry, setting up camp, cooking. We explored the seaside near our tent, the warm air almost inducing us to swim. Later, in what should have been the dark of night, we decided that we should head out of town, the better to see the sun as it sunk towards midnight. We wandered north, on an unused roadway, heading for a rocky bluff, behind which we knew waited the sun. A tunnel hacked into the rock shone with a golden halo of light, encouraging us onwards. We passed through it, into an abandoned quarry. And there it was, the sun, still riding in the sky despite the lateness of the hour. It glinted on the ocean, slowly sinking behind a rocky spire, which jutted up out of the sea like a single boney finger.

                Midnight was fast approaching, and we hurried to climb higher up the rock face we had just passed under. The light faded, causing the sky to brighten with colours. Soft orange and pale mauve settled over the see able world. Far up the coast, north into myth, the mountains ran, coloured like a Viking tale of Asgaard. The sun disappeared behind that frozen finger of granite that rode out at sea, but it never did dip below the horizon line. The gloaming did not fade away into night, but rather began to grow, as day returned immediately, the brief moment of haunting Nordic twilight not made to last beyond the instant that it was born. We sat amongst the rocks of the quarry, watching, as daybreak rode seamlessly into the sky. When we finally did return to our camp, it was well past 3 am, but neither Brad nor I could sleep. It was much too bright. That and the fact that we had witnessed something remarkable kept us awake. One day had become another, and darkness had not fallen.

                I am not much of a surfer, but I gave it a good try. With a van full of friends, I toured the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. We fuelled ourselves on canned chili and Miller High Life beer. It was a week-long escapade of sun, surf, firelight, and acoustic guitar.  We had decided that we should make time out of Myrtle Beach, and get down to Florida, where the waves were known to be better. And so we drove all through the night, heading for Cocoa Beach. I got stuck with the graveyard shift behind the wheel, able to stay awake by keeping the tunes blasting, and the Eddie Murphy Raw DVD on repeat.

                This particular beach has a river that flows into it, creating a very deep “hole” in the seabed, where the river water gouges out the sea floor as the two bodies of water meet. This merger of tide and river flow is good for waves. It is also good for fish, looking for food. Which means, it is good for sharks. It is called the Monster Hole, both in reference to its size, and its inhabitants. Having driven all night, we pulled up behind the dunes just as the sun was beginning to peek out from below the horizon. We sat in the sand, and watched as that tiny first gleaming of light grew into an angry fiery ball. Blood red light spilled over the ocean. And there, in the Hole, we could see the fins circling, as the sharks fed. Literally dozens of them, gliding along, just beneath the surface. That surface was calm, but below there was a piscine bloodbath. Sharks are terrifying, just as they are beautiful. There is a reason that Mexican fishermen call them “La Bonita” (the Beautiful), showing them respect and fear. We sat still, and watched them feed, the dawn growing all around us. No one stated the obvious, that surfing the Hole scared us all to death. Later that same day, as we sat on our boards, bobbing out in the midst of the Hole, we tried not to remember those sinuous gliding fins. It is, as always, a fine line with the fear and the thrill of the ocean. Put the danger out of your mind, and focus on the coming wave. It is only later that you can allow yourself to remember. Only now, after the deed has been done, you can remember not only the fear, but the beauty of the scene as well, that swell of the sky on the waves, and the shadows that fed beneath them.

                Those two dawns were remarkable, and not to be forgotten in the way that we forget so many sunsets. It is, as I said, the rarity of witnessing such perfect moments that allows them to stay with us.