Empty beach chair

It all starts with a fishing spot. When a man decides where he will spend hours pondering over the still waters, his family has no choice but to follow. I believe all who do not fish, much like myself, will never understand what decides on their spot. At least for the first time. A tight corner tucked around the abandoned elementary school where Elcoa Creek meets the Pacific Ocean. This was my father's spot. This spot was not scenic, there was no view of the ocean and you couldn't see Haystack rock, so tourist appeal was limited.  But this spot, she was a winner.

At dusk, the spot really showed her true colors. When the sun had fully submerged below the horizon our little corner came to life. Mosquitoes, pesky things, buzzing and itchy. If we were lucky the bugs would keep to their confines over the creek, but that's luck. Air daredevils that skeet across the surface toying with chance, then snap. A fish leaps from the still water taking one bug down. A nightly dance that takes place without fail. This is when my father could have found the most success if he could stand straight enough at this time.

After the dance is done the beach begins to tuck itself in. The dense mist that reeks of fish wafts over the beach like a wet blanket. Canvas chairs and terry cloth towels dink up the marine layer. It was hard to see at this point in the night. Even the stars had turned in at that time.  My mother would be on her third cigarette, but now she couldn't light it. The fire was so dim the surrounding chairs would be cast in shadow.  And me? Young tired eyes that started into shrinking flames awaiting a dry bed. 

Hypnotizing is the word I believe many of us feel towards an open flame. These flames are where I learned how to walk away from my mind, a valued skill in the modern world. Go on autopilot, your emotions were not needed there. Again and again, I allowed myself to surrender to the fire, slipping away.  Away with the sand far past the mist, when will she come back down? No time soon. 

It was well past time to go home. Mother and father in silent harmony collect all the belongings. No matter how much time is put into cleaning up there always remains some evidence that we were there. That this was my father’s fishing spot. Years have passed since the last time he stood on that shore. I like to tell myself the creek misses his presence when I visit. It comforts me to know someday another family will set up on the corner of Elcoa creek, and she will be lonely no longer.