Patrick the Pirate

My twin brother Patrick invited me to his beach house to meet the THE ONE. The one he’s going to marry. I was wary. Patrick has had his share of awful girlfriends. Let me describe Patrick. He is portly, balding and has a front tooth missing. He has a warm and ebullient personality and can make me laugh. Always. I arrive to his beach house and was greeted on the front stairs by a beautiful young woman who embraced me warmly and said, “Hi, I’m Mariah .” She opened both arms and gave me a warm hug. We sat on the front porch where she had two iced teas awaiting us. The air was salty with a soft breeze. The sun on my face felt wonderful. “Where’s Patty?” I ask as he’s usually the host and shows company in. “He’s napping. He’s been preparing dinner for us and needed a rest, he was nipping wine and he got sleepy”. Typical pirate behavior. So, Mariyah described how she met Patrick at her beauty salon. He came in for a haircut in spite of having very little hair on his head! He charmed Mariyah. He saw her going in to her shop and figured he’d find a way to meet her. We chatted a while and eventually fell silent as we watched the sun dip into the water. We walked into the house and into the kitchen and there was Patrick, stirring the biggest pot of white sausage gravy I’ve ever seen and grinning maniacally at me. “ Hello sister!He exclaims, “how are ya!?” I always imagine him with a peg leg and a parrot riding his shoulder. “Are we having breakfast for dinner?” A childhood favorite of ours. Mariyah looked up and I saw her green eyes glitter with gold specks around the iris. My brother has been bewitched, I thought to myself. The auburn hair to her shoulders. The smoothest creamy skin I’ve ever seen. Bewitched. Patty finally replies, “ why, yes! How did you guess? Oh! The gravy.” Our daddy made the same gravy for Sunday breakfast. Patrick resembles him in so many ways that it makes me ache for our daddy. Southern breakfasts were his specialty. We exchanged pleasantries while Patty stirred and sampled his gravy. He put the biscuits he had made into the oven. “It looks really good, Patty. What wine pairs well with sausage gravy?” I query. He laughs a huge belly laugh and exclaims, “whatever wine you like, go pick a bottle out.” Motioning to a wine rack. Mariya begins setting the large table that faces a picture window that looks out on a rising tide as the sun slowly and purposefully slips into the expansive blue ocean. The wine bottle was empty. The biscuits and gravy eaten and we sat around Patrick’s table and talked and laughed and I began to notice a trend. Mariyah tended to interrupt Patrick and interject herself into every story, sentence and utterance he made. It bothered me but I dismissed it to her being nervous. Who hasn’t felt that way when meeting new people? Especially the closest relative to the one you love. It got late and I excused myself to the room I usually sleep in when I visit the beach house we called “Sweet Dreams”. The next morning I was awakened by voices raised in anger. It was Patty and Mariyah in a heated argument. I dressed quickly and gathered my belongings and got out of there and to my car.

Under a pale star, We wade out a little far. Share a smile in the night, Our inhibitions taking flight.

Under this tar sky, We let our experience fly. Sharing in a blushing kiss, Our promises lead to this.

In the midst of a dawn, You and I did fawn. Sharing in a blessed sunrise, To never say our goodbyes.

…

🖤

Waves singing salty tunes Moonlight dim and softly looms Whispers quiet against the night Longing for the heavily light

Sea of green and blue hues Morning comes with heavy dew Sunlight bright against the sand Morning to day isn’t it grand

Beach houses; they're a great place for a vacation, a place where you can relax. So close to the water that the tide comes up to the posts holding up the entire structure. Where you can see beautiful sunsets, shades of pink and purple, reflected onto the water. The calm, clear, ocean waves lulling the occupants of the beach house to a peaceful sleep. The sand that got tracked in being permanently imbedded in the floor boards of the house. Not being able to sweep it up if you tried. The constant smell of sea salt in the ocean breeze. Walking along the beach for what feels like forever, until you have to go back to real life.

Eran las 3 am, la brisa me erizaba la piel, el reflejo de la luna en el agua alumbraba el ambiente con una luz plateada, era una llena, la marea estaba baja, el mar se escuchaba en calma. De dónde vino el grito ? Se siente sola la noche, escucho la espuma del mar filtrarse por la arena. Lo escucho otra vez, corro hacia el sonido, no siento las manos, los labios se me congelan, veo sombras y de repente no veo nada. Quedó ciega, un resplandor me incandilo, me arden los ojos, escucho la voz de dos hombres, no entiendo lo que dicen. Que está pasando? Dónde está Elisa? Era ella gritando ? Quienes son los hombres ? Escucho las voces acercándose, no se que hacer, empiezo a correr sin poder ver nada, siento los pies mojados, me estoy adentrando al mar, nado, pierdo el control, me estoy ahogando, no puedo gritar.

Me despierto, todo fue un sueño.

The view was stunning. Ocean waters came almost right up to the door, with sand at the base of the door so close that it was touching the entrance. We had been looking forward to this vacation for a long time. It was truly oceanfront property, something we could never afford. Only now that we were there, sitting at the windowsill and watching the water creep higher, higher, higher - we wouldn’t have wanted to afford it anyway. There had been no warnings about the incoming storm, and once any warnings came through it was too late. The house was ravaged by the waters, the wind, and we were trapped in the beach house. There was nothing to see from the window but the creeping water. We were fish in an aquarium, entertainment for some ancient, arcane species. And we would soon be embalmed in the sand.

Childhood conditioned me to loath and fear the beach Though not for crabs or seagulls or whatever else there creeps But for the very ground itself, the sand between my toes For what lies beneath it, does anybody know?

Each step is a risk taken, a gamble with your life Waiting for that sinking feeling, like the slicing of a knife Lungs constantly on ready to be held at second’s glance Barely even inching forward, unwilling to take that chance

I just know the very second that I let my caution down Is the moment I will find myself neck deep in sand and drowned So I follow in the footsteps of those I walk behind Thus if they succumb to quicksand; I can halt and end up fine

Mom gives a weak little smile as she pulls her suitcase over the threshold. I look at the small house, the living room is nice. Right when you walk in your faced at a small hallway. If you look to your right it’s the kitchen and to your left is the living room. The whole house is just barely big enough for us. Mom stands next to me, taking in a small breath. “It’s nice,” I say, before she can say what it reminds her of. She nods, and walks down the small hallway. Straight down the hallway is Mom’s room. And to the left of that is the bathroom. My room is a few feet away from Mom’s. I open the door, the room shocking me. I didn’t even know they could be this small. Attached to the wall is a bed, and next to it is a little white night stand. And to add some ocean touches, there is a blue lamp, and the blanket has shells scattered on a light blue back round. I roll my suit case to the bed and lifted it up. It’s heavy and makes the bed shake. “Tyler,” Mom calls, her voice soft. “Yeah!” I call back. She walks in holding her suit case, “I can’t, do this.” She’s crying without tears. If we were out in public I’d be the only one who’d know she was crying. It was her voice, the soft, quietness of her voice. And I had learned what it meant after Dad died. I walk over to her, “Mom,” I whisper, “You can.” She shakes her head, “Tyler, the therapist was wrong. . . I can’t live with out Matt.” I pull Mom into a hug. I can’t either, I only wish I could cry. But I can’t I have to stay strong, for Mom. I keep my hands on her shoulders as I pull away, “Let’s go to the beach,” I whisper. I grab Mom’s suitcase and roll it into my room. Mom follows me out the door walking down the three porch steps. I stand at the small wooden gate waiting for three boys and their parents to pass before I open it. “Hey,” the dad says, lifting a hand. I smile back, copying his wave. Once they pass I open up the gate, letting Mom out before me. She shuts it, Turing around to look at the house across from us. It’s huge, like really huge. Well compared to our little one. “Pretty,” Mom says, she’s looking at the bright orange roof and the light blue door. It’s a good combination, and good beach colors. We walk down a Sandy sidewalk, our bare feet making crunching sounds as we walk across it. We get to the beach the sunsetting on the water making it a rainbow of colors. Mom walks into the deep blue waves. She’s thinking about him, I can tell. I watch as she bends down letting the salty blue water glide across her hand. The first thought that comes to mind when I look at the ocean is Emily. I miss her, even if we’re not really speaking right now, I still miss her. I miss us. “Tyler,” Mom motions me to come into the deep blue water. She’s smiling, a smile that’s not forced not fake, just a real smile. In her hands she’s holding a small orange shell. It’s swirled and looks like a unicorn horn. It’s about the size of her finger. “That’s beautiful,” I smile.

My father died in the waves. I fear I’m next.

Maybe with a little more background, you can convince me otherwise, but it’s important that I tell you how he met his death at the hands of that seductress.

She called to him, and he confided in me, “I hear her every morning when I wake. She sings songs to me from the rocks out beyond where a man can stand. I see her, draped in seaweed, and with a voice like she was made by the good Lord herself. But I’m afraid that’s not who made her at all. But I must go to her. Not now, but soon.”

One morning, when I awoke from our beach front house, I saw him swimming out towards the moon as it sank below the ocean’s horizon. I called out to him, waving and splashing, pushing through the tides as I tried to reach him, but as the moon dropped out of sight, so did he.

I never saw his mistress draped in seaweed, and I if I did, I’d have tried to capture the creature. A fine beast for the carnival at least, but that’s not why we’re talking about this.

I have been hearing a song first thing in the morning. A voice unlike anything I’ve ever heard, as deep in vocal range as Davy Jones Locker, and as beautiful as a fine piece of art from the Italian renaissance. And I want to find whoever is singing. The voice isn’t coming from the rocks, but from a small isle I see much further in that direction, and it calls to me like the nicotine from when I tried to kick smoking. I know it’s wrong for me. I know I will surely disappear as my father did, but I can’t help myself. The voice, be it man, woman, or some other worldly creature of the deep, promises my childhood dreams of immortality to come true. It tells me that if I come to it, I will receive any sexual desire I wish, and the sound is in sync with the beating of my chest. Be still my heart, it’s the only way to stop me, and now you know there is no convincing me otherwise, for who can deny the enticement of eternal pleasure? Who would turn down the feeling of love and lust that you only feel when you get your first kiss?

And so if I’m gone tomorrow morning, just know I’m fine. I’m with it, whatever it is, and I’m sure everything will be fine… everything will be…

The perk of sleeping in on vacation was that by the time I woke up, everyone who had to get up on Toddler Time already had cute stories and photos to share. My two-year-old niece had never slept in a day of her life.

Mom held out her phone towards me while I poured cereal into a bowl - Reese’s Puffs, a lifelong vacation favorite.

“Perfectly timed,” she said, indicating the photos on the screen. She scrolled from one to the other. First I saw little Emmy and her parents, sitting in the shallow surf. Then, a wave came up, and all I could see of Emmy were here feet, sticking up into the air.

“Oh, no!” I laughed, closing the cereal box. “She’s okay?”

“She got right back up. Didn’t mind at all!”

“What a trooper,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d been swamped by a wave as a child at this very beach. “Send me that one?”

“Of course.”

Through the kitchen window, I saw Emmy sitting at the table on the beach house’s wraparound porch, munching on a cookie. Her dad held out a phone towards her. She stared at the screen for a moment, brow furrowed as she chewed her chocolate chips, focused as only a tiny child exploring this strange new world could be.

Then her eyes widened with comprehension, and she burst into giggles.

“Emmy in the water!” she shouted, audible through the wall. “Emmy in the water!”