Casting About with the Word “Cast”

I walked north down the beach in a drizzle. In the distance, I saw two men, one sitting, one standing, fishing for surf perch. They looked like figures in a colorless oil painting. I stopped to observe. A minute later, the standing man began reeling in the line. The game was afoot. He reeled slowly, then picked up the pace, and moved deeper into the water. As I watched, a sporting urge overtook me. I’ve always wanted to learn how to fish for surf perch. The activity must produce highly interesting thoughts.

So I taught myself right there, without an internet search. I whipped out a pole, rigged it up, baited the hook with shreds of myself, and cast my line far out to sea. I didn’t know how to cast a line worth a lick but I did all right.

I waited, waited, composed a haiku or two, and then felt something tug. I begin reeling, slowly, then picked up the pace. Something emerged from the water. I could see it dangling at the end of the line.

My catch was shapeless, but certainly not meaningless. Upon inspection, I could see I had landed the word “cast,” with all its multiple metaphorical definitions, and I was going to gut it, build a little driftwood fire, fry it up in a pan of corn meal and oil, and eat it with my hands while the ocean rolled a hundred feet away.

And that’s what I did:

Cast aside. Cast out. The die is cast. Castaway. Cast of characters. Miscast. Cast (plaster). Cast about. Cast a spell. Forecast. (Homophone) Caste.

I know I was cast out. Was I cast aside? If so, by whom? At what point does being cast out and cast aside turn into exile? Is this exile temporary or permanent? What does it feel like to be exiled off Main Street? I’m writing a book these days that answers that very question. The working editorial mantra for the project is: let it loose.

When a shipwreck survivor washes ashore on a uncharted, deserted island, at what point does he or she becomes a castaway? How long to achieve that exalted status? Am I castaway? Did I wreck the ship? Did Ahab in mad pursuit of his Freudian Moby Dick wreck the ship? If I am a castaway, how do I escape the island? I know nothing of boat building, tides or the shipping lanes. Is someone even searching for me? I think the search has long since been called off.

Most friends I had never signed my body cast after the busting up. You can’t text a signature to a cast.

The forecast for me calls for gray with perhaps gentle unstrained rains, twice blest, that droppeth merciful from heaven.

Or the forecast calls for drought and wandering unemployed in the wilderness.

I definitely belong to a caste. Who will buck that taboo and befriend me or give me a job? (Buck That Taboo…good band name.)

Man oh man, you talk about miscast. I am John Wayne as Genghis Khan, Donna Reed as Sacajawea, Jeff Chandler as Cochise, Gary Cooper as Marco Polo, Charlton Heston as El Cid, Jeffrey Hunter as Jesus, Richard Gere as King David, Paul Newman as Hank Stamper. You get the idea.

Who will answer a casting call for the next production of my life? Or is there no casting call? Perhaps it’s an eternal one-man show to an empty hall. The dog applauding in the wings doesn’t count.

How do I break the spell of mass marginalization? What are the incantations, elixirs and potions needed? Where are the good witches to help me incant?

Has the die been cast? Did I throw it? Did I cross a Rubicon? Do I want Civil War and the overthrow of the Republic?

I do desperately want to cast about again. People walk better when casting about. I am at my best that way.

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