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One morning, on a pier in San Diego, I walked blue, wooden boards, lined up and nailed systematically. The dock was a light shade of blue, and it's finish cracked like snake skin from its life in the sun. I stepped in slow strides on a path to mindful meditation. I enjoyed the thumps of my feet, how they echoed along the loosely nailed boards, creaking and croaking with every shift in weight. Smiles were held out towards me by those passing by on their fellow morning stroll.
There was a young girl with her father that stood out to me; she wore an off-white shaded dress, with a black waist band tied neatly in a bow upon her lower back. They sat against the railing, looking out to the sea in coin operated binoculars, sharing laughter.
I did not know what I was doing here on this beach at this particular moment, but I didn't care whether I did or not. The breeze had come in and it was lovely.
I inhaled the cold, coastal air as it blew against my jacket. My hands found the metal railing and, though I knew there were multitudes of germs and Lord knows what else upon said railing, followed it along the edge of the dock. There was gum and stains scattered amongst the painted pier, discoloring the blue. The floor scattered trash, only every few feet or so, like a manicured art piece, an art piece that spoke volumes of its previous owners. The seagulls and sea birds sure did seem to appreciate it, as they were chipping at them with curious pecks like they were interesting snacks.
Boats floated by; they were black and brown and green and blue. I looked for a long while on the ripples they left behind. Some were large and some small, but they all lingered the same amount of time.
There were cargo ships and Navy ships and speed boats and cruise ships, but the tugboats are what I favored the most. They drew steam in light billows and I would watch their routes cross and retreat. They were plump and strong, pulling steel vessels five times their size quite quickly from the shallow harbor. It was quite comical to consider, such a necessary nautical process, in reality, meaning that a tiny boat has to pull a huge ship out of the harbor because it can't do so itself. They would reap the waterway and blow their horn in announcement and then pull off, allowing the larger ships to push on through to their departure.
I sat there thinking, I wonder if I think too much?
I had been in the sun for an hour, my throat felt raw and I wanted a drink. All that surrounded me was the forgotten water bottles of strangers and the salty water beneath me. My body felt heavy because I was tired.
As my days are painstaking, I think back to the time I spent on the pier. I think back to when my brother would wake me in the dark of morning and have me take him to work. We would leave around four in the morning, but I didn't mind so much. It wasn't worth getting all bent out of shape about. I would cook eggs and bacon and smoke cigs in the moonlight. I felt quite American.
Our old apartment was cleanly with maple wood floors. Most the furniture was wood too. Our windows were small or skinny, but there was plenty of light in the room. There came light through the balcony, where I liked to sit and smoke. The little home had both a patio and balcony for us. I loved reading on the patio and watching the neighbors and dogs as I smoked. I would drink vanilla coffee or eat chocolate to keep my mouth tasteful.
There was a park across the street and next to it, a high school, and next to that, an elementary. Sometimes, at the park, there would be these crazy dance battles between huge crews. They would wear baggy sweats and high-top kicks, and explode at one beat in synchrony. I would sit on the bench with some other watchers and I think the groups liked the crowd. I remember thinking it was sad they didn't get paid for what they were doing, but I didn't pay to watch. I liked it there at night, when only the basketball court lit the area. I would smoke down at the park, or off in the dirt trails and trenches, for night was the only time the public wouldn't mess with me or have a problem. Ironic how most people feel the opposite.
Sometimes, when I run into people from the past, they question "Where have you been?" and I tell them I've been across state. Some would kindly want to speak more and others don't care and I prefer the latter. I don't care either. None of us really know what to say or how to act, and I'd like to think it's because we're human. We are always talking to each other but I think our ears are closed off. Maybe our fingers are numb to the touch of the freezing sea, from it's wash ashore where it cut our nostrils off, but I still lick my lips and taste salt water as both virtue and sin.
I always wanted to taste the beach, I still do. I would drive this one road home just so I could go by the beach. I saw it as such a waste to drive twenty minutes out, to the shorelines, to drop my brother off, and only do just that. The city always had cars and people to look at, so even when my brother was dropped off down in the shipyard, I wasn't alone. I looked at everyone and I played my music louder now that I was by myself. At nearly five in the morning I would find my habitual free parking spot and walk against a tall hotel. The lopsided lot had sand blown about the asphalt and it smeared and crunched underneath the soles of my feet. It's little plot lay nestled between the cement walls that twitched diagonally and allowed for shots of palm trees in the wind. There were very tall, lengthy buildings on either side of me and along the shore, some rotted and most urban, with glass walls to separate rich settings from the sidewalk.
Sometimes I'd drive clear out there without my shoes. I'd walk the dirty lot to the cement path, to the wooden path, with sand on the ground all the way. There would be beach bums and surfers, following 'The Endless Summer' with great courage and instinct. The sunrise brought them strength and their skin was not more beautiful than when it was sticky with sand and wet with the first swim of the day. I took this sand as my first love. We would play beach goth in the background and I would sort of jump from safe-zone to safe-zone, careful to look for glass bottles and seashells. I live for these moments.
Strange that my tongue can dry with salt and I feel so free. With all the waves morphing down around, one sees no fear in their eyes. You can be so thirsty and still never want to leave. I'd open my blue eyes to see the blue sky littered with small stars still visible against the sunrise and I felt like a prince. The sea would crash down and it never stopped. How endless and loving it was, to throw itself on the beach with such passion day in and day out. There they were, embracing the sand was water, and I loved them like they loved each other. I would stand on those sandy beaches with daydreams, watching blue caves crash down, my eyelids crinkled in sunlight, and feel alive. The blue would curl in a white blaze of foam on the tan sand and I'd find myself watching them, together for one another. I felt as infinite as the sand and the roaring sea.
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