The Earthling

I stood at the height of the sand, looking down at the waves as they came in. Behind me, the lifeguard's tower held up a yellow sign, with a black circle in the center. No surfing, the symbol signed. Undertow. The surfers called it being black balled, hating the guards for keeping them at bay. I stood there in the afternoon sun, children and families swirling about me. And yet in that moment, I counted myself alone.

There was an onshore wind flattening the waves and blowing in my face, but the currents continued to swell and batter the shore just the same. A girl no more than eight had pulled a rope of bull kelp from the shore, probably dislodged from some underwater forest far away, and swung it about her like a whip, keeping her boyish mate in tow, they playing tug-o-war, or she slapping the waves in her glee. The two of them danced and hopped over the shallows, running into the water and retreating just as quickly. In my mind, I thought up little poems and lines about the girl with the bull whip of bull kelp, slaughtering the sea with its currency.

The sun was hot on my bare shoulders and, as I had come ill-prepared, they began to redden and burn. I pulled off my tank top and walked down the little hill toward the Pacific. Her foam kissed my toes and sent a shiver up my spine. It made me pause half a second, just a touch fearful of the cold. It's a wonder the things we become afraid of as we tramp off into the all-powerful ocean. I kept walking, ankle-deep, now calves immersed, now up to my knees. Every few moments, another wave would come tumbling toward me and I, like a deer in the headlights, had to give pause until it roiled past me.

Once knee-height, I bent forward and grabbed great scoops of sea water, splashing my chest and shivering in the sun. O sea, how I missed thee! Now came a taller wave, not yet broken, not yet succumbing to that on-shore wind. I peered at her, put my right foot back and dove into her foam, feeling engulfed in her weight and letting her roll over my back. All the time, my eyes were shut tight, my legs dolphin-kicking like a true swimmer until I emerged, unscathed.

I looked back and noted the shore's distance. Who needed the old earth, I said to myself, when we have the sea to comfort us. I turned and saw the next wave coming. Planting my feet, I gave her my back and she spread her arms around me, pushing me half a step forward. O sea, how I love thee! Now swimming for my worth, I dove through wave after wave, resting just before her depths were too much for my height to reach sandy bottom. Gasping for air, my lips tasting of salt, I heaved great gasps, calming myself into the rhythm of the waves. I gave the earth one last glance, breathed deeply again, and kept swimming toward the sun.

And that, my neighbors, is how I came to Atlantis.

The Unwed Bride

Black suit exposed, trench coat slicking in the rain, he stood leaning on his umbrella, it closed and spike firmly planted in the quickening mud. Hair bolted to his scalp, the water ran between his glasses and face, making it hard to see. But it didn't matter. His eyes were closed anyway. Thinking. He stood surrounded by people he had rarely seen, let alone met. But she had. These were the ghosts of her relationships, and she was the shatter-point; the reason they were all gathered in the rain, shoes going the hell in this downpour.

She died the week before, making a left turn in an intersection. A van, right signal on, blew through the light as she was turning, t-boning the sub-compact and ramming the girl right to Jesus. In that instant the hammer came down on her life, creating fissures and cracks between all of her relationships. Even in her death she created relationships where, before, only strangers stood.

Her mother hadn’t spoken with her dad in nearly ten years. Now, they cried on one another's shoulder, his arm wrapped round her waist, holding the umbrella over her head. In due time, they would become good friends again – never lovers – and would have lunch once a week at the all-night diner.

The rain-sodden young man continued on, his eyes closed beyond the glasses. He listened to the monk, chanting in Mandarin. He knew the girl was a Buddhist, but somehow pictured a Western funeral. The scene was correct – rain, black on black attire, tears – but the monk was unexpected. There would be a prayer ceremony to make her journey easier every seven days for the next 49 days. Her name would be written in calligraphy on the headstone and, when he died, he imagined his name would join hers, they laying together like children at naptime for eternity.

They met when he was in college. She was three years his junior and he was a fifth year senior. They talked much too late and worked at being deep and stable, with wild outbursts in the night. His favored, most untamed memories coming in waves now: he pictured the late-night runs to the top of the bell-tower, the wine-scented kisses, the unwound feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dad didn’t know what he saw in her. Her mom thought he was immature. But they worked well together, not quite opposites, but bringing a balance to the relationship. The following year, they moved in together.

Things went pleasantly, but he never gave her his name. His one regret, for the rest of his life, was that she died without his name. And he had worked so hard at making it a good one.

The Warming House

His favorite part of the day was the early morning. He'd awaken just before the sun would light the sky, cold in his longjohns, pulling his socks from the foot of the bed, having kept them warm under the covers. Next, he hauled the jeans into shape from the cold, hard floor and, standing, tugged them up, buttoning, zipping and leaving the suspenders to dangle. He'd pull on another shirt, right the suspenders, throw on the heavy flannel jacket, goose-down hat and black scarf. The doorknob would be deathly cold, but he'd grit his teeth, touch the knob once, then twice, then wrestle it until the old oaken door pried ajar, just far enough for him to get his body out, without awakening his sleeping wife who lay quietly bundled up in blankets and nightclothes. The lantern guttered in the wind, then resumed its strength as the passed through the doorway and closed the guardian behind him.

The air ripped through his bones, even with all the layers attempting protection. He'd walk over to the shed, blowing warm air into his cold hands. Gloves were a bother, he imagined. They inhibited his work. Each day, he went to the wood pile as the sky began to gray and pulled 4 or 5 decent chunks of pine for hewing. He'd turn each piece over in his hands, expecting it for moisture, bugs and something else. He couldn't place it, but some pieces got saved for later carving. They were too good to be burned.

Once upon the chopping block, his arms and axe handled the lumber squarely. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. He'd repeat the process, exhaling a torrent of stream as he did so. He never cut enough wood for the next day. That was tomorrow's work and he wanted to be able to do something with his hands in the morning. The wood would be corded and slung over his large shoulders with a bit of twine, the ax returned to the shed after he tested the edge with his thumb. He'd trudge back to the log cabin of his youth, open the door and slide in. Close the door. Walk to the stove, kneel.

By this time, the sky was turning orange and red. His beard had snowflakes in it and his cheeks were rosey red. Take off the hat. Rest, palms on the floor. Untie the wood. Stretching his neck, he'd look into the fireplace and see the same old grate he'd stacked wood in since he was 9. Again, the wood went in and the fire lit. Hanging a pot of water, he'd warm it enough for tea, then continue warming the remainder for the wash basin.

The house warmed enough, he woke his wife.