Cigarettes in the Salt Air

He never was one to see the sun coming up.  Yes, it was the Atlantic.  Yes, in this part of the world, that is North America’s mid-Atlantic coast the sun rise was the solar event that played out over the mighty ocean.  Sunsets happened over the bay. Yes, the solitude of the earliest light on the beach was revered by many.  But when you go to bed at 4:30 a.m. drunk and stoned the dawn’s first light is not on your radar.

On the other hand, the late hours on the strand were something he was so very familiar to him.  After the beer ran out, after the card game was ended often times because no single person at the table could even remember what the game they were playing was, let alone the score, after people simply slipped into the ether of sleep or stupor of more than enough pot and beer, he would excuse himself or be kicked out and it was then he went and payed homage to the water mother of us all.

Be it a night of heavy mist, or clear starlight or muggy August air, it really didn’t matter to him.  A bit high and a little tipsy he would make his way over the barrier at the street’s end. Stealthily he would dash up a flight of steps and over a barricade of railroad ties smelling of creosote pounded into the sand to mark the street’s terminus.  His feet immediately came out of his footwear. Shoes in his hand he would scan the beach left and right because it was “technically” illegal to be out here at this hour.  Normally unless you were being a real bother the cops would just let it slide.

He would walk for blocks until the distance between the beachfront houses and the water’s edge was at its maximum.  It was then he would roll up his pant legs and go wading out into the water.  Retrieving a Bic lighter from somewhere in pockets of his shorts he would pull a Marlboro out of the soft pack in his shirt pocket.  Standing in the water he would inhale heartily and then let the smoke escape his nostrils. He felt the salt water around his feet.  He stared out to the East although there was very little he might really see there, maybe a ship’s running lights, I mean these were the darkest hours of the night.  But standing there watching the dark feeling the thick water around his calves and hearing the waves falling one by one well the best he could describe it was he felt at peace.  He felt holy.

When the cigarette was burned down to almost the filter he would flick the butt out into the waves.  He would turn back toward the beach and walk back to the access point to the strand from whence he had started.  Did that ritual mean anything in the grand scheme of things?  Most likely the answer is no. Did it give him a few moments of peace, you bet your ass it did.  Would those moments carry him through the rough points throughout the rest of his life?  The answer to that is an unequivocal yes.  The ocean is never the same.  You can’t go back and relieve the exact moment by simply stepping in it but like Siddhartha at the river each time you wade into the waters you know that you are part of the unending stream of life.  This occurs whenever you are ankle deep in salt water, be it in the here and now or be it in your memory.