Hooked

The gulls give me beady, sidelong looks, those awake do. Those asleep dot the sand ahead like white-black or brown pins pushed into a sloping cushion.

It’s frigid, and it’s only us, me and the gulls. The cold affects us both but I do a worse job of hiding it. The gulls are expert.

Too often I visit this Hook into the sea and walk with my head happily cast down, only to realize later I’ve hardly looked at it.

The surf is little tumbles atop each other, a soft suction then a fizz. A winter sea should be more punishing. This is late and lazy August gentle. But I'll take it.

The sky is concrete, forever. Something lurks behind that slab above, something surly. Not the sun, he's fled. It's certain. A fair weather friend if ever there was one.

Sand like ashes, it has seen a lot of rain and wind and my steps break the natural streaks that angle like herringbone.

A red lance of an oil tanker is inching along the horizon. If there were an opposing tanker with its hull painted black, it would be the slowest joust in history. By degrees the red tanker pivots out to sea.

Behind me the brush on the dunes is trimmed the length with a golden thread of wildflowers. A little flair never went wrong.

Tracks are everywhere. The empty circles where fishing poles rested, the tri-corner quick-step of the gulls or the wide, dutiful strut of retrievers.

Lungs revive with the cold burn of sea air. A slap of wind across the eyes. Stings, then reflexive tears. No symbolism, God forbid, just cold wind. All well. Salty, though. Everything here is salty, even what you bring.

I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and make a leaner line of my body against the cold.

What I love about the Hook is what it gives, without fail, without my asking, an endless reserve.

Sand and sky are narrowing into each other now. Sunset.

I came a little too late, but it’s alright. The wind grows broader and less feeling. It’s snatching at the hair and shoving the wildflower faces away. Oh, fine. Show’s over. Has to be, sooner or later. I lead with hunched shoulders and retrace my steps that broke the herringbone sand.

Halfway back, I catch myself mid-wish and say ‘No.’ It was a selfish wish. To ask for two such places in any one life is to fail to appreciate the first. The original gift. It’ll always be there. That is good fortune enough for a lifetime.

In my imagination, that stretch of beach waits for me.

But it isn’t true. Foolish boy.

It doesn’t have to wait. Why should it? It knows I won’t be away long.

© Eric Yves Garcia 2013