Time and Tide

It seemed that as the water receded, so too did my angst.

 

I needed an excuse to paddle, to get out in my kayak in the center of the bay and just float. As the tide began to move out I knew that I would have to be quick about it. Gathering my gear, getting into the shorty one size too small, PFD over a shoulder, grabbing the yak, paddle in the other hand and humping it down to the inlet would find me chasing the last of the ebbing current. Why is it in these moments the gremlins are out, knocking things about, slowing me down, damaging my calm? Always keeping my rescue gear in the boat saves me time and frustration of not leaving it mindlessly behind, but everything else seems a deliberate effort because I am in a hurry. Once on the waters edge, I set the 17 footer down into the salty marsh, climb in with the grace of a landed hippopotamus, squinch into the cockpit, do the shimmy into the seat, and set my feet against the pegs. Its calm, no spray skirt today, besides, at my age I have no business rolling. A little sculling pulls the boat away from the shore, and I am underway.

 

It is incredible how efficient long pulling strokes in a sea kayak carve the stress and agita out of me. I enter my practiced form, borne of long years of paddling, a half twist at the hip, dipping forward clean and deep, driving back gently and smoothly, lifting with a twist and moving now to the other side. Again and again, the smooth patterned motion takes over my conscious, and I forget, why I am here, what I was worried about, what else I should be doing. I just am.

 

The sun is setting as I come out of the small fingerlet, the moon rising in the east over the end of the world outside the bay. The breeze is gentle, the tide carries me effortlessly. The rec boats with their bikinied babes and manly men at the helm, beer in hand, doing 20 knots in the no-wake zone don't bother me, as I drift lazily over the steep series of waves that spill off their hulls. In half an hour I am drifting in the center of the bay. Its silent here, warm. I can see nothing forever towards the rising moon. I switch on my nav light over my right shoulder, open the Chem-Lume on my chest, and I rest. I can see the bridge to Ocean City to my south, the piers of Somers Point behind me, and if I believe, I can see the lights of the casinos in Atlantic City. The moonlight fills the shadows, and the contrasting shore takes on a new form, the soft rollers lulling me a bye. A cigar, I think, and enjoy it watching moonrise and sun set. After a short lifetime I toss the last dreg of my Hemingway into the sea, and paddle through the smaller waterways off the inlet, watching the sea birds, seeing fish jump near the weeds. In, around, back out to the bay.

 

Its getting dark now, and the tide has ebbed. Work tomorrow, and I am convinced the cats miss me, so I turn the boat leeward towards home. I have renewed, if only for the moment, but its all I needed. I am the long, smooth, clean rhythm. The shore comes upon me, scull in, and once again lock myself back onto the muddy shore. The weight of being me slowly sets down on me again. But I have strength now, of knowing tomorrow, we paddle again.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

I am weary...

“I am weary, Craysis…”

The war horses were magnificent, stoic and awe inspiring for their calm in the sea of tension swirling below.  Astride, the generals surveyed the ordered gathering of leashed hellions, alight in morning sun off polished metal and waxed leather, the majesty of the crimson plumage of the Guardian Legion out of place here. Behind the two warriors a wall of Guardians waited motionless upon equally massive steeds, the heralds fluttering above in the autumn breeze.

Pretorius was the elder, a veteran of wars too numerous to count, remembered by the place and the dead. Time has no meaning in these days, measured by battle won, battle lost, and the endless tally of those who had died. These legends had weathered Pretorius to the weary man he had found himself to be on this cold foggy morning.

Craysis had been with Pretorius for over a hundred battles, ceaselessly at his side. He was known with great respect as Pretorius the Younger as in manner and thought the two had become indistinguishable. He turned to his friend saying nothing, thinking only that this weariness had found itself deep in his bones as well.

The warriors were ageless. Both men stood over 18 hands tall in their bare feet, muscle and sinew, strong enough it is said, that they have been known to carry their injured horses from the field. Resplendent in his battle dress, Pretorius looked away from the mounting terror, closed his eyes and faced into the sun.

“Things never change, Craysis, when the same thoughtless sword is used to solve every problem.”

Pretorius opened his eyes and let the sun burn the darkness in his soul. After a moment, he looked back unblinking to the field.

“To the south we have these religious, who swarm in upon us because their imagined god demands it. To the barren east, the weak raid us for food as they are hungry. The west bleeds from the barbarian whose greed drives them to murder and rape our people, steal our resources for no other reason than they want to. It rains in the northwest with the tears of the driven, whose mad king has feuded them into deep poverty and despair, driven by swords behind them into spears before them for no other reason than senseless pride.  There is peace only in the northeast borne of decades of respect, sharing of knowledge and fair trade. And even there tensions rise as these forces press upon our two empires.”

Craysis nodded, insight dripping with the blood on his own hands, replying, “The answer is always the sword. There is no reckoning when the anger and hate cloud judgment, making even the most learned base spittle and venom…”

The ensuing quiet was interrupted by an approaching messenger, dusty and sweaty from a brisk ride up the hill.

“My Lord,” he breathlessly addressed Pretorius, “The Legion is ready!” He turned his excited horse just short of the two men, whose horses moved not a hair before the smaller steed and its snorting aggressiveness born of the tempest around it.

Pretorius nodded, turned to Craysis with the wretchedness that filled both men, and replied so softly that the messenger behind them knew the words only because they had been said too many times before.

“Kill them… kill them all.”

An Awkward Situation

The house smelled of wood, of smoke, and of fresh tobacco. It laid down a layer of calm, freshened by the air cascading through the window opened but a crack against the wind and rain. The sounds of the squall pouring off the roof and the balconey outside, against the windows and on the street below was reverberant. He poked the fire, low lit, and sat back in his chair, relieved that the Grand Marnier had not lost its pleasantness for him. A long pull on his cigar, he exhaled, the smoke trailed along with the cool air towards the fire.

Henri had lived here but several weeks, and had filled the house with things, but things don't replace people, no matter how many things one collected. Nor did it replace his cat, he thought, staring into the flicker. He missed his cat, and took no comfort knowing his cat, of course, did not miss him. The loneliness was magnified by the realization some time ago that he had grown weary of his own company.

The bell of the phone on the table between the fireplace chairs startled him. He let it ring a few times before he lifted the receiver, to spite it.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Yes, hello, Inspector Levant. I am Lieutenant Francois Bellavue of the Gendarmerie. It seems there's been a murder."

 

The Lieutenant paused as if he awaited some expression from Henri. Henri was not in the mood.

 

"So you say..."

 

"Well, actually, the dead man with the note attached to his chest with a rather long knife says so, Monsieur. I am but painting the picture as it lays before me."

 

"I see. And what is of it to me?"

 

"The dead man is Inspector Henri Levant, Monsieur. This makes something of an awkward situation."

 

Henri was intrigued. "Ah. Yes, I suppose it is."

 

Posted with Blogsy

A Tale of Two Men

He’d waited for over an hour before the old red Ford pulled into the driveway. He looked at his watch, shook his head and watched for a moment as it made its way noisily up the gravel drive, stopping just short of the house. He put his hands on the armrests, paused a moment, then pushed himself up out of the deep soft chair, a labor born of weariness, not infirmity. He could hear Jorge stepping up onto the porch as he approached the door, and opened it.

“Hello, Jorge. Here, let me give you a hand with those.”

Jorge nodded and grimaced as he lifted the box a bit higher for Wayne to take from him, and then picked up the small gray Samsonite at his feet. He came into the house, removing his straw fedora, and glancing about.

“Wayne, its not changed much. But you, you got old.”

Wayne smiled and grunted, waving Jorge to a seat on the couch next to the chair from which his story began. Wayne had met Jorge some 34 years before, when he visited this same house and sat in another version of that couch in which he now sat. Things were different then, a bit more tense. And there was a gun involved. But that’s another story.

Jorge pulled out a fresh Romeo et Juliet cigar, and passed another to Wayne, who had already pulled the cutter from his cigar table. Wayne cut his cigar, passed the cutter to Jorge, who worked his cigar in his hands as Wayne lit his, sat back, and took a long draw.

“You saw me here last week, you stupid shit.”

Jorge smiled, cutting his cigar, then giving it a cold draw, sat back and turned the lighter in his hands. It bore the markings of a naval ship, a frigate, USS Halyburton (FFG 40), its herald behind it as the engraved ship seemed to come forth from the aged unpolished brass.

“Yup.”

Jorge smiled at Wayne, lit his cigar, and the two men sat in silence.