to the beach I wish I go

I arrive in early evening. The day is still young yet for many. The sky is bluer here, perhaps the reflection of the ocean makes it so. The air is salty, breezy enough, beautiful and relaxed. Of course that I'm here relaxes me.

I meander down the streets till I find a little cafe. At a table in a back room looking out the window at the old buildings all around, I sit and order dinner. I'm quiet and contemplative tonight anyway, perhaps it's from being so far away from what I know so well.

A harried waitress brings my order then disappears. A young couple sit at the table next to me, discussing where they want to go next, looking at the tourist maps, trying to figure out the direction. I offer that just a few blocks down then turn east is where they want to go. They thank me than head out. I feel like a local, knowing all about the area, when I'm just a tourist myself.

When I'm done eating I get up and take my plate to the kitchen. Seemed the right thing to do here. Awkward, but right.

I head down the street myself, admiring the little shops with their various bright colored wares. I love the vases, the sculptures in wood or glass. I love the reds and blues, vibrant and showy amidst the neutrals of white and sand. I wander in and out, so many places sell the kitschy junk, the stuff a shop owner stocks just for the tourist trade. I don't want that. I want something local, something someone here made. I admire the driftwood animals, the seashell covered picture frames.

The fluorescent lights inside these stores spill out onto the sidewalk and boardwalk, pointing the way. The people go in, go out, bags in hand, talking and laughing. I am just an observer tonight. I walk along, in and out. I stop and buy chapstick at one store, then continue to the end of the deck on the boardwalk. The ocean is just beyond and I can hear it though it's too dark to see and all the lights behind me make it hard to even gage peripherally where the sand ends and the water begins. But I can hear it. I walk past a restaurant that is closed for the night, the waiters cleaning up and counting out. The cooks gathered around the tv in the bar watching something very intently. The deck is in shadows, with a few chairs and tables with umbrellas out. I like it. I want to take a picture of it. I dig in my purse for my camera, and take pictures of the empty space.

There are sounds coming from down below, the party just getting started on the beach. I lean on the cross beams used for a safety barrier, lean over and watch the bonfire, the people roasting marshmallows and laughing, passing the bottle of Jack, passing the joints. I am just an observer. I am alone and nothing feels more so than in the dark. This doesn't bother me until now. I traveled all this way. I ate alone. I soaked in the atmosphere, alone. But to stand here in the dark, it seems overwhelming.

I turn back to the boardwalk, counting out mentally how much money I have left for the trip, counting how many days it will take me to drive back home. I decide to get a hotel and leave tomorrow. So be it, another road trip, another adventure. But I made it all the way out here by myself, I can make it all the way back, too.