Vol. II. Issue. III September 2011 - The Criterion: An International ...

www.the-criterion.com The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN 0976-8165
He wasn’t sure what to make of it, since he’d never been to the beach. But he was certain the
dream would come back, and there was only one way to find out what it meant.
One morning, Jonathan sat up in bed and watched dawn’s solemn glow sieving in through his
curtains. His legs itched to get him out of bed and ready for work, but his mind was again on
Lena Beach. September rainclouds would be rolling in and frozen ocean winds would be
scouring its shore. Jonathan shivered, slowly sliding his legs out from the covers and placing his
bare feet on the icy carpet. The sensation briefly jolted him back to the present. Time to head
downtown, where a new stack of papers would be waiting for him.
After his usual morning routine, Jonathan climbed into his car, suppressing Lena Beach. All
along Riverside Drive, he felt the pressuring need to turn left at the light towards work.
Wrongness hounded him all the way to the intersection, but once he was there, he gave in to
where he had to go, what he had to know. He turned right.
Jonathan’s breath became ragged. As the road stretched out behind him, he was certain that there
was no going back, not since the milk had gone sour. Before he knew it, he was passing Auke
Bay Harbor, where numerous Bayliners bobbed against their moorings. As he drove further away
from home and work, the houses thinned and the evergreens and cottonwoods gathered. It was
just as well that the trees swallowed the houses, since Jonathan found them increasingly difficult
to look at without thinking of their dark windows and stale air. At the same time, however, he
was keenly aware of leaves rustling as wind ripped them free of branches before the coming rain.
Eventually, he passed the ferry terminal, where the MV _Columbia_ sat moored with its loading
bay open. When he saw the green sign just after the terminal marking the entrance to Lena
Beach, he turned down the narrow road and drove until he found an opening in the trees. Already
he was shaking again and had trouble rolling the window down to let in the pounding of the surf.
Sprinkles of rain dotted his hands, dashboard, and wheel, spilling into the car along with the
pungent smell of the tide.
Jonathan left his car parked alongside the road and slid down the dirty slope, avalanches of dead
needles following in his wake. When the brown trunks pulled away, they revealed green
mountains, slate blue ocean, and silvery-grey clouds barreling close to earth. The colors of his
dream resolved into the damp, foreign vista around him, but as of yet, nothing looked out of
place. Bleached tangles of driftwood rested in beds of shell and gravel. Dried kelp seeded with
dead crabs marked the high-tide line. Nothing living was visible.
But once the heart thumping in his ears subsided, he could hear a sound he had never heard
before--a harsh, distant buzzing noise. Jonathan searched the horizon for the source. Near one of
the islands of the archipelago was a small white shape: a fiberglass boat, no canopy, barely more
than a smudge against the mountains. Squinting, he saw two shapes sitting in the boat. People,
Jonathan thought. There were people in that boat. And this time, they were real. Time stopped as
he watched.
Vol. II. Issue. III 280 September 2011