Rheumy eyes slowly drifted to the left, then right, in their filmy soup. Hiding behind eyelids cracked open a mere slit, just enough to permit the rude entrance of a single shaft of morning light, they assessed the small room and the surrounding contents. Cal foggily acknowledged aloud, “Yep, still alive,” and eased back down into the world of nonsense dreams playing at the front of his brain.”
It was Friday, January 20, 1989, just another beautiful, sunny day on the central coast of California. Cal lifted one tanned chicken leg over, then out, suspended off the edge of his tiny bed, his first move to jumpstart the sun-drenched day ahead of him. Eventually, the rest of Cal’s wiry frame followed his leg out of bed, and he shuffled stiffly across the room in search of his little cobalt blue bottle. A treasure offered up by the low tide, he always mixed his green drink in it for good luck. So far, it had never let him down. After swirling an artful blend of organic juices with kamut wheatgrass, he tilted his head way back and poured it down his throat in three large gulps, followed by a heartfelt burp. Ah, life is good.
Turning to the cock-eyed mirror near the front door, he wiped the green moustache from his mouth with the shoulder of his tee shirt and took a closer look at his reflection in the clear, bright light. Cal attempted a little smile, exposing rows of yellowed teeth jutting randomly askew like so many driftwood fence posts staggered across the sandy dunes that he roamed. Not bad for an old surfer guy, he decided. The deep lines that crisscrossed his sun-weathered face formed craggy intersections on the road map of his life, though most of the latter half of his time had been spent here on the coast. Aside from his passion for big wave surfing which ran deep in his veins, his driftwood creations born of the salvage on the beach had established him as a reputable artist in the coastal community and provided a small income over the years.
He was a simple man. His only nod to adornment was a sterling silver cross always worn around his neck suspended from a worn strand of leather. Cal’s long, knobby fingers, as gnarled as the driftwood that he lovingly sanded and glazed, rested for a moment on a sepia-toned photograph wedged into the corner of his mirror. The edges were dog-earred and clearly wore the damage from frequent handling and overexposure to sunlight. His beloved Trina. Cal vowed to never take off the cross, a first anniversary gift from her, since the day that he lost her in The Accident. It had been decades since the drowning less than half a mile down Ghost Tree Beach, and only six years into their marriage, but time had not lessened his devotion to her, did not end with her sudden and senseless death. He kissed his two fingers and touched them tenderly to her image as he headed out towards the Deep Blue.
Grabbing the driftwood handle, the rough-hewn door creaked open allowing a burst of brilliant Cali beach light to flood in. With a quick pat across Neptune Kitty’s sun-drenched belly, Cal stepped out into the morning and inhaled deeply. His nostrils flared, taking in the nautical perfume, a blend of humid ocean air and salty winds blowing in from the northwest. It was going to be a good surfing day. But then it was almost always a good surfing day, he chuckled to himself.
While Cal’s aura was dusty and faded, in his bony 69 year-old birdcage chest still beat the heart of a flesh and blood man, not an ordinary man……a warrior, a Raging Warrior of the Sea, at least in his mind. Truth be told, he should have retired his board at least ten years ago. The spindly remains of once meaty biceps flexed and clung to the aging surfer’s upper arms, as Cal hoisted his bleached out board onto his shoulder with a small grunt. Barefooting it down to his beloved sea, he sank into the warm sand with each step, his forward progress only slightly impeded.
A lifetime of surfing had honed his abililty to recognize Perfect Waves by sound long before actually seeing them. The white-capped waves along the deserted stretch of coastal beach were 15 to 20, about the way they needed to be for him. Cal paddled his board rather aggressively toward the sweet spot coming up, waiting for the wave just ahead of the Perfect Moment. Mounting his board with the agility of a much younger man, he turned, balanced and in control, leaning into the direction of the wave as he had done thousands of times before in his dreams and wide awake.
Overwhelming exhiliration, heart-pounding adrenaline magic rushed in, the mountainous waves cresting and crashing in his ears and over his head. Holding his breath, Cal steadied himself. The biggest wave was freakishly oversized and far more intense than he had anticipated. It was going to be a rough one. Apprehension seized his heart, and he struggled to push it back, just as he struggled to remain close to the surface. The ferocity of the current swirled around him, pulling him down. The Raging Warrior of the Sea rose up inside of him as he summoned the strength and courage of a sea-faring Goliath. In that moment of confrontation with the one perfect mountainous wave and one deadly undercurrent, Cal became every man that ever walked the earth, every hero who has earned his worth, every dream that has wings to fly, every soul unafraid todie. Trina would have been so proud of him………..
The tremendous crushing forces of the ocean’s strength pushed Cal’s body down, down far below the surface, churning and agitating him with the motion of an enormous washing machine. Struggling for the surface, Cal clawed furiously, desperately, in an attempt to remain upright and fight his way to the top, but his air and strength were nearly exhausted, despite the jolts of electricity pumping wildly through his veins.
Cal opened his mouth to surrender, to hasten the inevitable, gulping saltwater as it flooded in. Trina……………..Mama…………Jesus……..streaming, screaming through his dimming consciousness as his brain recognized it’s doom. Then…silence.
Gentle wavelets lapped against the wall of seaweed-strewn rocks along the bluff downwind from the beach. The undulating rhythm of the waves that Cal had loved and lived for now surrounded him and carried him slowly, kindly to the shore, returning him to the welcoming bosom of home.
Tiny, curious fish darted excitedly around the strange, motionless intruder, as they unknowingly provided a marine escort of an entirely different meaning. As the winter sun began to melt into the Deep Blue, it’s golden light caught the silver cross floating near Cal’s face in silent serenity, illuminating it in glinted brilliance.
Sleep in peace, Driftwood Cal. What a reunion with his beloved Trina it must have been!
Return me to the ocean
The birthplace of my soul
My alpha and omega
Where waves will gently roll.
Unite me with my lover
Who sleeps here now with you
Oh, briny waves flow over
Our bed in the Deep Blue.
Exotic Hippie Queen's Third Eye 