Everyone has been burdened with a destination at one time or another, so Jim decided to skip ahead. He strolled between ivory colored tables and chairs, that were wooden, handcrafted and overly ripe. Jim understood this world. It was a time of great excess and little concern for sustainable cost or corrigible responsibility. The women cackled and winked, feigning interest in keeping their hair tightly wrapped, while doing little to hide their recent highlights from their companions or the wind. The men were, apparently, nowhere to be found. Surveying his surroundings, Jim hummed rather loudly, even with the waves breaking, neither sound was enough to smother the gossip or all that was pretend. Jim hated being home. It was both figurative and reassuring. He had long looked for an opportunity to become more consistent in happiness and fulfillment. Yet amongst the women, it was cozy, as if his living room could infinitely extend. The stretch of sand was long and different mile markers yielded a variety of named beaches. Each with a different set of principles and tradition. Jim could always venture on and if nothing was appealing, circle back. But by then, the tables and chairs would be chipped, faded and warped. Someone had gone to great lengths and probably great pains to intricately craft the woodwork. Like Jim, the furniture was meant for the predictability and safety of an interior realm. Maybe, neither were designed to last much longer. It took awhile for Jim to realize that he was no longer humming and the ocean was perfectly flat. He found an empty seat and sat inside one of the familiar communities. Secretly, he hoped the women would eventually get around to telling him that being completely miserable could be wonderfully consistent. But their hair was now frizzy and saturated with salty air. They turned and asked Jim if he knew of a lifeguard named Woody. Jim cackled, winked and chipped a few pieces of wood from his chair. He had not skipped far enough ahead, but at least this was not his destination.

After an eternity had methodically passed, Jim grew tired of feigning confidence while straining to keep his insecurity safely hidden from Woody . In actuality, he had stumbled from the tidal pool only a few seconds ago, just as a peripheral movement was lifting in a blur and then returning quickly towards the perpetuity of the ground. The act had occurred well beyond the bushes that hugged the road, and Jim’s neck was sore from the misstep-as was his pride- so he gave the matter no further attention. No one had responded to Jim as he composed himself and stood, waiting motionless along the shore. Maybe, he had been too convincing, the sand was golden and the sky was blue. People were expected to be fumbling at the water’s edge, just as beach goers were bound to have an occasional question. He took a few steps to the right and headed South, from where the women had come. Clearly, this felt like a good decision. It mattered little that he would be unable to hear any of the conversation between Woody and the women. They had to be so beautiful, after all, it was the beach, soon there would be no more talking. In a strange way, he actually felt happy for Woody. One day, hopefully in the future, when Jim was bobbing in the sea, riding the crests of the grandest of waves, Woody would envy him as well. Jim veered into the cool liquid and immediately noticed the foam wrapping around his ankles. He even sat down for a second or two, yet with all of the adoration that awaited, he did not want to rush things or risk being seen as overzealous. He was now half a sand dune away from where he had left the remnants of his initial plans. Rough drafts were part of any process, and their embarrassing results were easily forgiven. Jim lifted his head and began to walk in an actual direction, his steps were straight and completely dry. There were beach towels and umbrellas that had to be waiting. He slapped his lips together and thought about his rewrite. Next time, he promised to make the women less awful.

The women, and I use that term loosely, continued their approach towards Woody. In case you were wondering, physical attributes mattered little to me, I judged people on their intentions. And while that meant that I was not always able to speak-conclusively-on behalf of what I saw, my memory bank made sure that I learned from my experiences and never needed a lesson to be repeated. As I was saying, these “women” were closing in, now in a circular vicinity of the lifeguard. I was becoming comfortable interchanging the words Woody and lifeguard once again. For awhile there, I was not sure if either should be considered names, descriptions or synonyms for remorse. So, one woman, if I was okay with oscilating options for the recurring entity who made imperfect sense, I would have to extend that same courtesy to that which was unknown. But, if I was judging based upon intentions, and not on outward appearance, would that not signal that what I was seeing was in fact, familiar and understood? Perhaps this brief, yet very necessary distraction, was how Woody came to find himself stretched, as one of the uglies was suddenly in front, and to his left, while the other nasty was behind him, and to his right. I paused for a split second, because I thought I heard a noise that sounded like a tape being rewound, but it was just a terse slapping between two hurrying waves. Predictably, the parties to the natural world were quick to reach a binding agreement. WIth the seas restored to a full calm, I could retrieve my focus. Now, I was unsure if my mind was readying to make a suggestion or a “nasty” remark. And then, I caught myself flailing, an objecting breeze making sure I saw my sides lifting high, separating from my cowering skin. Had I been doing this all along, making quotations in the air, or was a third party pleading with me to refrain from constructing labels birthed by materials that had spoiled, were outdated, or worse yet, unadvanced ? Still, I made sure to keep my eyes on what was transpiring, a few hundred yards closer to the shore. The woman in front of “Woody” was pulling hard on a leather strap, while the woman to the rear of the “lifeguard” was fumbling with a metal clasp. I thought I saw everyone’s lips beginning to slap…but I had come to realize…that was the sound that a tape makes when the ribbon is becoming twisted…and its lessons are no longer intact.

A footnote to history….”all that appears in the construct of a lifetime…this version… or better yet…this grip… is colored by what amounts to…the most incidental of all contact…aversion is a pressure that at times is miscatalogued as delicate instead of defunct…just as insight is a preordained fate…unequivocally held back…by faded blankets and the gentlest of tugs.”

And then…at the beach… the ” ______” was confused…for everyone had their own assistance. Kudos to those subjects… who erroneously offered up a “raisin.” Indiscretion is that simplistic…and not surprisingly…always eager to observe.

As the first woman neared, Woody was unaware that a second followed closely behind. It was not his vision or an inability to count that was acting as a hindrance. Rather, it was a shuffling light emanating from the slopes of a purposeful sand dune that was consuming the surface of his inquisitive eyes. It was akin to a magical orb that Woody had heard about when his grandmother used to babble about the creatures who lived in the woods. Supposedly, they used bursts of illumination to momentarily interrupt moonless nights, all the while piquing the curiosity of the most foolish of settlers. Woody could never understand the power of intense attraction versus the horror that fueled self preservation. On more than one occasion, experiencing this phenomena supposedly led families to exchange their homes and their safety for a pathway that lured them far, far away. Woody could still hear his grandma whispering the tale, while back in the world, he scrunched the top of his nose upward, bolstering the efforts of his squinting eyes. No matter the era, the “far, far away” was always a dead giveaway that someone was pulling his chain. He smiled and once again, promised not to hold it against her. The bright light was now flickering in different, and irregular dimensions. Flat triangles, giving way to thick diamonds and tall circles. Woody knew that there was no immediate threat, other than the burning sensation in his right eye. Even when he slept, he often struggled to keep it fully closed. It was not yet the middle of the day, and the sun was more than a viable substitute for a resting moon. Besides, sand was now beginning to fly and swollen, pinkish legs– repeatedly stumbling, were just enough to create a lingering image that reluctantly-Woody would be forced to entertain. As the flashes became less frequent, the legs continued to grow bigger. There was enough experience in the old lifeguard to trigger a feeling of impending horror. Somewhere far, far away, a wayward settler was supposedly begging Woody to join him, while Jim stood at the base of the shore, most definitely, pulling his chain.

Jim’s feet reluctantly made contact with a small tidal pool that was just in front of the shoreline. He hated stagnant water, but figured that this was the least invasive way to get acclimated with the temperature of the sea. Jim wondered if hepatitis or a bacterial infection would agree, or if Woody was beyond the point of being saved. No one could ever accuse Jim of not covering all the bases. There was a hilly, four foot gap between the pool and the ocean. The wind barely rippled the hairs from his shins, and the sand that rested beyond the edges of Jim’s naked feet was dry and undisturbed, healthy circulation was still a distant moon rise away. Jim drifted back to the boardroom and thought about the extra cost of his thin, cotton dress socks. For most occasions, smooth, soft skin was certainly worth the $20 upgrade. And now thanks to his daily habits, he could feel every droplet of water and every flake of salt as his mind considered the craftsmanship of every seam. Jim rarely felt so alive and excited about a purchase. He surveyed the closest set of waves, they looked smaller with every forward push. On second thought, he was the better man, and each rush of water up the shore was proof that everyone already knew. Looking down, there were reflective purples and pinks that a younger Jim had only seen in a pack of crayons. In the distance the low lying clouds sat atop the sea, like icing on a cake. In the heavy air, Jim could smell enough perfume, to know that feminine eyes had found him. His back was now warm to the touch, even though the sun remained high and well endowed facing his resurgent front. So this is what the frontier had felt like, open spaces and automatic love- just like the displaced chunks of foam, no one cared at what point they had fallen, until what was left was no longer good enough to have or to hold. Squirming possibilities gave way to restless motion and then contaminated bare skin, the insides of the puddle were shifting, mirroring Jim in a manner that was both muddy and ordinarily fraught. He thought he heard Woody laughing, and surmised that the ladies preferred a man who enjoyed the benefits of thicker socks.