SURFING TO CANADA

TRESTLES

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Bad news comes in waves. It kicks you when you're down. It doesn't come when you're secure with the world and your place in it. It's when you're doubled over and reeling that it gets in close to deliver its brutality to the ribs and kidneys.

His name appeared in the obits in the local paper. I knew it was him even before I read the entire column because the picture was not recent but one from the past, from his high school days. Its inclusion was cruel. How could a 30-year-old picture not much larger than a postage stamp begin to represent his life? No hint behind the newsprint eyes of the boy he had been or the way his voice sounded throwing out a laugh.

I knew him when he was young, when I was young. The obituary had explained nothing, nothing of his death, nothing of his life, although I had no expectations there. He had died in Canada. No surprise to me that he had not come back from his exile. The obit was printed in a local paper and the publication meant that someone was praying for remembrance, asking for veneration. Those attributes did not suggest Damon; he was not disposed towards such subtleties, at least not the Damon I knew.

The service had not been performed yet. Canada is a long way from Southern California. I did not rip out the article because I had not formed any action that I deemed appropriate, but I saved the paper.

I wandered south just past San Clemente and parked my car along the spot now designated for beach-goers. That had changed. No such designation existed thirty years ago. I suppose I looked ridiculous in my middle-aged clothes walking my middle-aged gait over the freeway and down the asphalt path that led to the sand. As it turned out, few were around to even notice. It was not a particular good day for the beach, grim and overcast. So much for cosmic justice.

The wetlands below the tracks and the vast stretch of sand seemed to have retained their character. It was closed then, it’s open to the public now but it will be closed once more one way or another. I knew the Marines were doing what they could to ruin what was left. I trudged into the sand until I could see the white fluff of the waves. I instinctively wanted to feel the cool touch of the water, to let it caress me, to nuzzle against it, but I was too far away, in place, in time, and in disposition.

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