Sunday, October 27, 2013
I always come here, this alcove at the end of the promenade, long passed the place where people usually come. It’s the hard core survivors that come this far south, to where the new cape gives way to the old cape, and where the beach turns into preserve. In past years, I walked here from the motel and then out onto the beach for the long walk to the light house – just barely visible this time against the gray sky.
This is a fisherman’s place, and a place for lovers, young and old, with a few surfers catching waves where the land tucks in, and where the rocks jut out, a dance of water that always sends mists into this place and creates a sense of permanent rain.
Even on warms days – which is not – people wear hooded garments and sweaters in order to keep out the chill that mist brings, lovers holding each other against the threat of the world beyond, this sea that once contained so many enemies, but which have since been vanquished, the Nazi subs waiting for the ships of cargo to pass out of the mouth of the river, and before that the Northern ships keeping cargo from the south – this is a place below the Mason-Dixon line after all, and before that British ships seeking to quell a revolution many residents here opposed.
Now, we just watch the waves for dolphins and wait for the sunset that on this day won’t come, but on some days comes with such magnificence, we all bear witness to it the way we do the birth of truth or right or justice. But on dull days, when the chill of injustice washes up with all the other propaganda, we just huddle and endure, waiting for that day when the clouds break and the sun shines through again, bringing us warmth and comfort as reward for our patience. We all know all we have to do is wait.