A transformational musing on the next step
Time.
It is a fickle thing, both wispy and particular but brutal and uncaring. It mingles and twists, but eventually enough of it passes that it becomes familiar. Too familiar, like you own a little piece of it, and then you realize that it has become your time. The words fold over on themselves and it becomes clear, once you can see your time you can see where your portion ends.
It was with that notion held in her mind that she drove to the beach. Sunset encroaching, a ferocious storm coming up the coast. The aches in her body told her that she was too old for this madness, but she was determined that no matter however tired she might be she was going to ride one more gale. So she went, because she knew her time too well, she could see the proverbial station. Her stop, time to get off, coming quickly. If death wanted her soul, it was going to have to take her from the sea.
So she pulled up and parked, way in the back of the lot away from the restaurant traffic, over on the breakwater side. Shoes and shirt, shorts too come off and expose the swimsuit she is wearing underneath, a proper surf suit of nearly full body coverage. She pulls her short board out and closes the hatch of her little wagon, wishing she was still steady enough to stand on a long board. Belly surfing was still good though, it was an experience from another perspective. Half in, half out, riding at the surface, it felt right. She packed her dry clothes up on the seat, locked all her stuff in the car, clipped her keys to a carabiner and stashed them up under the fender hanging from a tab, tied her hair back, picked up her board, and headed for the beach.
That was the last time the restaurant security cameras ever saw her, the investigators were sure of it. With her board under her arm, she vanished down the path to the dunes. Nobody paid notice. The storm came howling down shortly after the place closed up for the night, her car was still in the lot when the power went out. The whole bay went dark, save a few places with redundant power, the lighthouse, and the channel markers. Lightning danced in the sky, illuminating dark clouds and frothing seas. Gulls and pipers forgot their differences and huddled behind anything that would break the driving wind and rain. Windows chattered and gales screamed between battened masts, howling like banshees while the sea slammed the docks and clawed at the dunes. Old fishers sat in their huts, safe on pilings where they’d stood for decades and longer, talking about the way the storm was different. The sky flashed green and a blast of wind wailed through like a grief-stricken crone, then everything fell still for a moment. An eerie quiet where if one looked straight up they could see starlight between the walls of clouds as the eye passed over. Then as suddenly as the stillness came, it was torn away. Two hours more of vicious battering by angry seas.
Sunrise came to cloudy skies, fog, and misty rain but not much else. Damaged roof shingles and siding thrown about, items not stowed properly liberated from their homes and flung hither and yonder, one damaged vessel listing precariously against its mooring in the harbor. People walking the beach, picking up trash and tossing sea stars and sand dollars back into the water. It was another day at the coast after a storm, a category three. The regular patrol took note of her car in the lot, got out for a look. Phone on the console, clothes folded up on the driver’s seat, rear seats folded down but nothing inside. They ran the tags, added her name to the list of missing people, and went on. They would tow it later, but there were more important things than abandoned cars to deal with.
“Do you think… -- -- -- hurt?”
“I -- -- look -- -- -- -- breathing.”
“-- -- stay and -- -- -- -- -- -- -- call someone.”
Broken words are all she can make out through the thundering ache in her head. Everything hurts. She doesn’t remember when the ocean spat her out, or washing up at all. She just remembers barely catching a big swell, the exhilaration, getting up on her knees on the board, falling onto her hands and racing down the crest. She remembers dipping too hard and the nose of her board getting caught in the rip and torn from beneath her, her body pulled down and dragged against the sea floor down into the depths, then nothing. Now, beach. Finally she cracks an eye open, the one that isn’t shoved into the sand currently, and tries to get a look around. The perspective is weird and her vision is different. That must have been a hell of a hit. There’s a young woman standing nearby, capri pants and barefoot, a pink shirt and a straw hat, a vest that says “Beach Patrol” on it. She tries to say something, let her know she’s conscious down here. Takes a breath, speaks, but a mumbled “eeehhhhh… reh! Bleh” is all that makes it out. She decides to go ahead and let them call somebody after all. Everything feels weird and she’s exhausted, medicaid can pick up the bill.
The young woman startles at the noise and kneels down a short ways away, safely out of reach but clearly concerned. “Poor thing. You must be exhausted, fighting for your life in that storm.” She sighs gently and backs away, getting up to wave someone off. “Hey stay back! It’s alive, leave it alone. We’ve got someone coming.”
This lady has it in hand, she figures. She lays her head back down in the sand and lets sleep take her. So tired, and so very sore. Dreams are odd things, they can mean things, they can be nonsense. She dreams of surfing, of swimming, of being dragged under and dashed upon the rocks. The cold, salty embrace of the North Atlantic, a voice, soft and deep and far away. “You cannot have her, she is mine.” Then lifting, rising, thrown upon the shore by a massive wave. Sand. Rest.
A sudden, sharp pain in her ass. Wait that’s not a dream! Yeeoow! She comes up hollering and fighting, flailing and snapping furiously. It is way too late for that nonsense. She’s already wrapped up and in a sling, restrained by five volunteers and a startled biologist who’s just drying to draw some blood.
“Whoa! That woke her up!”
“No shit! Watch the teeth!”
“Fuck, she’s strong!”
She fights with her entire body, all her strength, all her panic. Thrashing but she can’t swing a fist. Kicking is more like flailing.
“Come on baby, calm down! We’re just trying to help you…”
There’s a flash of understanding. Something clicks in her mind. She looks straight at him and says “What?” But all that comes out is wreh! She freezes, everyone stops. She blinks and looks around at them. Their shirts all say Marine Mammal Rescue on them. The dream flashes back through her mind again. Dragged under. Embraced. Held. Kissed. Reshaped. Returned to shore. She releases a pained eeerhhh and the world spins out into blackness.
“Did you just hit her with a sedative?”
“No!”
“Oh shit. She’s ice cold.”
“Come on, get her in the van, we’ve got to bring her back and warm her up.”
“Go plug one of the electric blankets into the inverter, we’ll carry her up.”
It is not an easy task, she is not light. Whiskers hang out one end of the sling, flips out the other end, four-hundred and fifty pounds of adult pinniped is not simple to drag out of the dunes. They manage it though, drag her up onto a beach buggy and bring her up to the lot, ease her into the back of a van with the marine sanctuary logo plastered across the sides. Pity she isn’t awake to see the two cops driving her car up onto the roll-back wrecker. A local reporter takes a few photos, a few videos for a story. An emotional piece for the aftermath of the hurricane. One life lost, one life saved. A local woman and experienced storm surfer presumed lost at sea. Those who knew her said she went out doing what she loved, and wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. That same morning on that same beach, a two year old gray seal was found washed up on the dunes. Exhausted and cold, but alive, presumed to have barely escaped the storm with its life. Volunteers from the sanctuary say her condition is serious, but recoverable. With some warmth, some rest, and plenty of fish she should be back out to sea in a few weeks.
Artificial light meets her eyes when next she wakes. Someone is nearby discussing x-rays. “Nothing broken” they say, “but severe deep muscle bruising. She must have been thrown up on the rocks, lucky to be alive. Good thing she seems to be in good shape otherwise or she might not have withstood it." Lucky indeed.
She is dry now, indoors, wrapped in towels and shivering violently. Reh-ehhhh… oh god it hurts. Everything hurts. They don’t know she died. That’s why she’s so cold.
They turn around. “She’s awake, and finally warm enough to shiver. That’s good. Let’s keep her here tonight in the heated pen, get some pain relief into her. She’s probably sore as hell.”
You don’t know the half of it, buddy. She keeps one eye cracked open as the apparent veterinarian draws something up into a syringe and approaches her cautiously. She’s still wrapped up, but she’s too busy shaking to do much else. She feels his hand on the back of her head, looks at him. He pauses. She releases an exhausted eh-ehhh and doesn’t resist. The needle goes in around her shoulder, deep through the insulation and into her muscle. It lingers a moment, then withdraws.
He gives her a little pat. She opens her eyes again. A few more people come in to help corral her into a pen. They open it up, put a steel dish in there with some whole herring. Lay a foam mat down on the floor, try to slide her in with the towels. She doesn’t want to let go of the towels, they are warm and she is not. They fence her in at the open front of the pen, turn on some long infrared heat lamps, dangle a fish in front of her nose. She just lays there and tries to go back to sleep, an adult gray seal that does not want to move is quite a task in a confined space. Her senses get the better of her though, her mind sharpening away from the overwhelming chill and ache. She knows this place, she used to donate to them every year, sponsor a wash-up or a rescue, or an abandoned pup.
I guess it’s my turn to catch a sponsorship. She perks up a bit, and shuffles into the pen. Nobody seems sure why she does it, but they’re thankful for the cooperation. They close the gate, she stretches out on the dense foam pad up off the concrete, basking under the lamps. Oh, to bask.
They surmise she doesn’t want to move simply because she’s cold and in pain. Night watch keeps an eye on her, but she doesn’t do much. In the morning she is fully dry and fluffy, having changed positions now lying half on her back with her belly facing the lamps and her flippers all spread. She looks like she is in heaven, though hasn’t touched her food. Her new regular caretaker arrives, they stand and watch for a while.
She wakes up eventually at their presence, rolling onto her belly. She shuffles up toward them, bright-eyed and curious, and tries to lean up on the gate but fails. She starts to lift herself up and then lets out a sharp yelp and collapses. She lays on the floor for a while and just wails about it.
They flinch. “Oh that sounded like it hurts.”
“I bet it does. She’s got more than a few bruised bones and torn muscles.” The other vet has arrived.
“At least she felt good enough to try.”
“Not good enough to eat, though.”
“With any luck her appetite will pick up when she starts to heal.”
“I hope so.”
They take the bowl of stale fish out and toss them in the main pond outside for the healthier, hungrier residents and a few lingering sea birds, then come back in and give her some fresh water and another round of pain medication. She lifts her head a bit and bumps her caretaker with her snout, flaring her whiskers, checking them out while they fix her water and check the heat lamps.
They startle a bit, suddenly aware of their carelessness. “Gosh I’m glad you’re a whole lot more chill now. You could’ve just taken my arm off and it would have been my fault for not putting a barrier between us.”
Reh.
“You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?” They reach out and very cautiously stroke her head. “You’re okay here. We’ll get you fixed up.”
She only flinches a little, then gently catches their windbreaker coat with her front teeth and tugs on it once before letting go and laying back down. Weh.
They close the pen up and leave her be, watching her drift back to sleep while the medication sinks in.
“She got awfully comfortable with you, awfully quickly.”
“Seals are smart. Some of them are very smart. Either she’s figured out that I’m safe, or she’s too sore and tired to do anything about it.” They look at the sleeve of their coat, barely a tooth scratch in the fabric. “I’m not sure which it is, but she could’ve just torn me apart right there and she chose not to. Just gave me a little nibble.”
“She’s curious, and very brave. I’m worried she’s a little too familiar with people.”
“Or totally unfamiliar, and doesn’t know what to do with us.”
If they only knew. Hell of a language barrier, here. She understands every word but she can’t make her mouth make the sounds. She considers the wisdom of trying to talk over the course of the next day, mostly sleeping or pretending to sleep. Sprawling around in different positions, talking to herself. What if she showed them? What if she taught herself to make words while she was here? She could stay here for the rest of her life, talk to people, do shows...never return to the sea again. No. That realization alone is enough to talk her out of the idea. She’s just accepted that she’s no longer human, that she’s now one of the creatures she always stood in jealousy of for their grace and speed in the water. She will recover here, learn how to be wild. Learn to chase fish in the big pool, socialize with the true wild ones.
That is what she will do, it is decided. She will be sick and hurt and let them dote on her for a while until her body heals, but always stay cautious, always stay a little bitey, and so she does. She gets a reputation as a smart one, a particularly sharp one, a bit of a trouble maker. She is always gentle and curious with the one caretaker, the one whose coat she pulled on, always friendly with them. Follows them around when gestured to come along, but quick to take a piece out of anyone else who gets too close. She even rears up and threatens people who come up behind them. The biologists surmise that she has bonded with that one caretaker and regards them as part of her pod, but isn’t so sure about anyone else. When she’s hurt and isolated, she takes fish only from them. When she is eventually introduced to the large social pond, she catches live fish and delivers them to her human friend, pretending to not understand why they will not eat.
On release day she eases out of the transport kennel and looks out at the open sea, then looks around. There is a crowd of volunteers, all with boards at their feet to corral the handful of releases for the day toward the water. One last show of personality, she decides. She looks around in the crowd and finds her friend, her person, and much to the dismay of everyone in attendance makes a beeline for them. She stops in front of them, rears up and barks. Motions at them with her head, bites their board and tries to pull them toward the sea. Camera shutters snap, video recorders capture the moment the human puts their board down. They crouch and stroke her head, then motion out toward the water. She shuffles a few paces toward the water, then turns back and looks. Reh! Reeehh! They shake their head, then put their arm around their partner who is there with them today, and hug together.
Another handler approaches with a board and a pole to help urge her along, she snaps viciously at him and drives him off after ripping the pole from his hands and discarding it on the beach. Then she calls out to her friend again, but they stay there in the group. Finally she decides that is enough, turns, and bolts into the sea. She pauses in the shallow surf and looks back, they blow a kiss to her and wave her off. She cannot see the tears in their eyes, they cannot see the joy in her heart.
It is better that way.
