A Lobsterman Looks at the Sea

His new hip healed in, we're working on a bluff, talking doctors and health care reform as we shove a new propane tank into place. A shape on the surface catches his eye: "Right whale," he says, but I can only see endless swells rolling in from the east. He points out the gradations of gray and green that mark deep ledge, the tide's shape along the islands and rocks, the whale's glistening back suddenly in focus. I react with the same surprise my patients feel when I observe what they can't see— a sudden shift in gaze, or a crease in a cheek, understanding how a doctor becomes like a man who has spent sixty years on a lobster boat, watching the world swim fast and shining, right before his eyes.