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The first time I visited that beach I rode all the way there in the back of a blue Blazer. Lying on the floor facing the sky, legs bent, crossed, or resting on the place where the rear wheel intruded upon cab space, my view of the trip consisted of the changing clouds, random tall green mountains, taller vehicles we passed easily, and various power lines and road signs. A compilation tape of my current favorite music played endlessly in auto-reverse through the headphones attached to my head. Berlin, Bananarama, Madonna, and others. Late summer, maybe August, and it was nicely warm once we reached the beach, even with the breeze. I was in my own world mostly, with memories of a boy I’d never see again; a product of the kind of chance summer meeting only teenagers have. The other occupants of the Blazer walked, talked, and perused the beach without me; I walked alone dipping in and out of the grabbing waves, the music my companion. Northward was more interesting, where at some point in the distance the land moved outward into the water and stood defying it with a tall rocky cliff. I thought I could reach it as it seemed so near, but I never seemed to get any closer though I kept walking. Kites were being flown, and horses were available for rent. Slave labor. We rented one anyway. Terribly underfed, sway-backed, and generally unkempt, the horse refused to acknowledge my guiding nudges, pulls, and tongue-clicking. I felt wildly out of control sitting on this poor animal, and I felt ashamed for having lost the skill and courage my mother had taught me about horseback riding. I returned the horse to its captor after just one short, hard-won trot down the beach.
A beige foreign brand sedan delivered me to that same spot only months later. The standard deluxe stereo system outpoured Genesis, Boston, Peter Gabriel, and certainly Journey. Driver as dictator. Eventually that music became a part of me. A cooler with foil-wrapped fried chicken and cokes waited in the back seat. I imagined that this was the freedom adults knew. Nearly winter, the wind was powerful and manipulated my hair, obfuscating the beach from my sight. Kites and horses no where to be found. I think there was rain. We walked south, staggering against the wind, to where a small stream carved its way through the hard sand. Maybe we played in it a bit. We definitely sat on one of the big logs exiled by the unforgiving surf. Mostly we remained capsuled within the car, which shuddered too against the strong cold wind. It was nearly impossible to see through the windows. I suspect it was equally difficult to see in from the outside.
Maybe six months later, I returned in a grey skinny truck. I remember nothing about the trip, only that I went. The aftermath was unpleasant and unnecessary.
A little blue car, a much better representative of choice and independence, eased onto the hard sand bringing me back again. We listened to New Order, Violent Femmes, the Cure; I empower my passengers. Spring meant cool weather, but also a possibility of sunshine. We walked barefoot in the sand and surf while I clicked the shutter of an empty camera. Kites mimicked birds. I doubt we stayed for long. Most of the value of the trip lie in the gossip exchanged and not the locale. I’m sure some of that beach was deposited into the blue car. Probably traveled with me for weeks until I donated it to the vacuum.
Eleven years now since that first visit. I think it’s time for another just to ponder the notion that some things haven’t changed in a decade. Surely some of those larger logs resting far up onto the beach would be the same ones. The arm of land reaching out into the turmoil will still be there - maybe I can reach it now. I suppose the creek has carved a new route.
Any trace of me was effaced with the pull of the moon.
"All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain." - Batty, played by Rutger Hauer in Bladerunner
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