I park the bike at the top of the pier, and look out over
the shore. Grey ocean. I look to the left. The sand reaches in a straight line
for about a mile, which looks like one of those God’s Eye paintings where the
landscape and the bare reedy dunes are all sucked into one point, but at the
very peak of my vision I can see a minor hesitation in the sand, as it retreats
around the corner of the island into a weedy jetty. The sun is about four feet
above the horizon, and I can see two colored specks of nylon and jeans some
distance away, but I can’t tell who it is.
I
look to the right. A forest looms over the edge of the shore, a few shipwrecked
trunks and old trees look like tide pool playgrounds. One is being swallowed by
the tide. I’ll go this way: it’s less crowded. I kick the pedal, rise off my
seat, and roll onto the sand.
Everyone
is probably going to wonder where I am again. Or maybe not; most of them are
out fishing on the island and have probably guessed I’m out biking and
listening to music. I was a little embarrassed yesterday when they caught up to
me on one of the deserted sand roads near our house yelling Beck lyrics into
the Spanish moss and knobby brush. They pulled the golf cart up behind me and
probably tailgated me for a few seconds before they honked the horn. No, I’d
much rather be out here by myself on the beach away from the mosquitoes in the
woods.
Put
your hands on the wheel, let the golden age begin.
I
hear the slow, bright song in my ears.
Let
the window down, feel the moonlight on your skin. Let the desert wind cool your
achin’ head.
This
is probably the fifth time I’ve been alone out on the island for the past three
days, and I’ve been listening to this album on repeat every single day.
Let
the weight of the world drift away instead.
I
lightly swerve around a dead tree half submerged in sand and sharp barnacles. I
wonder what everyone back home is doing?
It’s
a treacherous road with a desolated view.
I
hope I don’t meet anyone along the way. I want to sneak a look at all of those
empty kayaks hidden under the pier at the end of the island again. The sand was
covered in footprints and scuffs, and no one was around.
There’s
distant lights, but they’re far and few.
Sometimes
I see a jogger, or some beachcombers looking for olives on the shell bank near
the sea, but I’d rather not wave or smile or anything like I’m passing someone
on the street. I like pretending that I’m the only one on this tiny island.
And
the sun don’t shine, even when it’s day.
Sometimes
I’ll find some footprints, or a dog trail in the sand and think, now how did
that get here?
You
gotta drive all night, just to feel like you’re OK.
On
the midnight ferry ride over here a few nights ago, I remember looking at the
dark water at the head of the boat. It reminded me of a huge flat blacktop.
These
days I barely get by.
There’s
just so much space out there, on the water. I thought I could ride a bike on it
if it were solid, and it would be like I was on the floor of some giant
airplane hanger hanger.
I
don’t even try.
I’d
like that.
