The rhythmic ocean, grabbing and pulling at the shore, made Officer Ian Frank uncomfortable. He never liked the beach; what was it good for but to get sand everywhere? And then there was the memory, the one he’d tried hard to push out of his mind for over thirty years, when, as a child, walking down a beach at Pajero Dunes with his father, they’d come across a dead seal. Seagulls tore strands of flesh from the carcass and pecked at its black Go-stone eyes. Ian had wanted to stop and look at the animal, to see death up close, but his father shielded him, guiding him closer to the surf and around the corpse. Two years later, his father was dead, having jumped off the Bay Bridge. It was a quiet funeral. Closed coffin.
“You mind going it alone?” said his partner, Officer Willis.
“Are you for real? You know I hate the beach.”
“It’ll take five minutes. I’m starving, and this breakfast burrito has my name on it. I’ll owe you.”
Ian wanted to protest, but what would he say? That it wasn’t just the sand that bothered him but the ocean, and how it felt like looking into the cruel eyes of an old god? Officer Willis had already begun to unwrap the foil from his burrito. Ian gritted his teeth and exited the patrol car.
It was cold for a Northern California beach, which are notoriously miserable to begin with, but the beauty of the slate sky and ocean was not lost on Ian. Still, the repetitive crashing of the waves against the shore made him uneasy.
As he descended the staircase, he looked down the beach at the suspect, who sat motionless in their beach chair, a white sheet draped over their head. Their posture would have made any Thanksgiving day aunt proud, the epitome of manners.
They must be on drugs, Ian thought as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The sand gave way under each step, making it hard for him to feel composed, but he trudged onward until he reached the sheet-covered suspect.
“Howdy,” said Officer Frank. “Mind removing that? You’re making the residents of this little community nervous. They say you’ve been here all night. Is everything okay?”
No reply.
At this hour and on this particular stretch of beach, the waves were mean. Over the past couple of years, several bodyboarders and surfers had drowned in the undertow. To trip on drugs here, next to these violent waters, was dangerous, if not idiotic. Officer Frank shook his head; he was annoyed, and the sand squishing between his socks and his boots wasn’t helping.
“Hey, buddy, wake up—time to go. Grab your sheet and chair and leave the beach. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Silence.
Officer Frank hit the button on the radio mic attached to his shoulder and, following a short beep, said, “This guy ain’t budging. Might have to move him by force. Over.” There was no reply from his partner. Probably has his mouth full of burrito. I hope he chokes. Asshole. I’m out here freezing my nuts off.
“Okay, pal, I’ve warned you,” said Officer Frank, moving closer to grab the sheet, but then he caught sight of a second suspect fifty yards down the coast, also in a beach chair with a white sheet over their head.
“What the hell?” Then a third—this one standing in the surf just twenty feet before him, the end of their sheet swaying with the salty currents.
He turned to wave down Officer Willis in the patrol car but was startled to see ten more sheet-clad suspects sitting in beach chairs directly behind him. He told himself to keep calm—this was just a practical joke—Officer Willis was behind this prank, maybe even with the Captain’s help. They were just taking the piss out of him for…but for what reason? Was it a work anniversary? No, that was in September, not June. He laughed; it didn’t matter; he’d simply remove one of these sheets, and the gag would be over—he could get off this frigid beach and back to the warmth of the patrol car.
But when he turned back around, there was only the one beach chair—only one person sitting with a sheet over their head, just like when they’d first arrived on the scene.
He took a deep breath, grabbed the sheet, and yanked it.
Officer Willis nearly spit potatoes and tortilla onto the patrol car’s dashboard; he’d never seen anything so hilarious as his partner—a decorated Officer of the Law—on his back, scooting away in fright as the volleyball he’d placed atop a mound of sand earlier that morning rolled off and toward the surf. His wife would be pissed about using one of their good sheets, but boy was it worth it. He would never let Officer Frank hear the end of this. And just wait until he told the boys back at the station.
On the beach, Officer Frank recoiled in terror, his hand still gripping the sheet as if it were the only thing tethering him to the land of the living. He saw his father, a bloated corpse with eyes pecked out by seabirds and lips split and white from the salty winds. He screamed, but the ocean swallowed up everything.
Heya friends!
I just got back from a beach vacation with my family, where we saw a dead seal being snacked on by seagulls. We also found a baby bird that had fallen from a nest in the atrium of the house we were renting. I tried to help the chick, but it didn’t make it. :/
The kids were fascinated, saying (over and over and over again), “Can we go see the dead seal?”
My kids were curious about death. Ugh.
I’ve had so many encounters with death that I know how she takes her coffee, but she refuses to give me any details on the great beyond. I’m not convinced she even knows what happens after she whispers, “The End.” From my observation, she just sort of has her coffee, touches the things I love, and then leaves out the back door while I’m crying.
My kids asked me, “What happens now that the seal is dead? Is it gone forever and ever and ever and ever?”
“Well, you see, the energy has left the seal’s body…but it’s not gone, gone.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh, well…could be the wind now—or maybe it’ll be a flower? I don’t know. What I do know is that everything has a lifespan—”
“Does space have a lifespan?”
“No…I guess not…maybe?”
“Okay.”
“My dad—your grandfather—died young, but I’m working really hard to live as long as possible.”
“But why is there so much death at the beach?”
“There is a lot of life, too. Look at that mosh pit of birds out at sea. They look like they’re having a good time.”
“What’s a mosh pit?”
“You know, like a circle pit? Slam dancing? The pit! You know…”
“Like Gray Duck?”
“That’s the mush pit. I’d rather be in a mush pit than a mosh pit. Blew my knee out in one of those—a mosh pit, that is.”
“Can we go see the dead seal?”
“Pizza will be here soon.”
This trip did you good!
two compelling stories for one, and here you told us you weren’t writing this week.