Stormwatch

By Stephen Richter | 1:30 a.m.

I crossed the railroad tracks by the soccer field in the rain. I avoided the tunnel and walked up the hill towards west cliff instead. I had an urge to put my hands in my pockets but didn’t. I haven’t done that since before the Corps. I continued up the coast. White water boiled. It rolled into the bay. I bent my head to the rain and walked to the lighthouse. This place is sacred to me, at least for what it represents. The sea lions were gone. They’ve been gone for a while now. There were only three people disbursed along the guard rail, in the mist, at the edge of North America. They stared out at the sea. They watched her churn and smack against the cliffside. I did the same, for a while. I felt a bit silly, standing there with my wetsuit on beneath my jeans and jacket. I had walked down to see the waves. I wasn’t going to surf. I don’t even know why I had suited up in the first place. I took off my jacket. A woman watched me hop the guard rail. I walked to the edge of the cliff and stared out at the swell and the sea birds. I looked down.

“Come on,” I said, “It’s not a big deal.”

I held my hands in front of my face. I closed them into fists then opened them again. I looked at the lines, life lines, love lines and fingerprints.

“Hello, excuse me,” said the woman at the rail behind me.

I assumed it was her. I slid my hands into my pockets. I savored a pure and undisciplined moment for a moment then jumped off the cliff, into a patch of kelp and the Pacific Ocean. I back-stroked and got swallowed in the wash. The current drove me into the bay. I swam towards the pier, then once free, I swam towards the monument and the stairs beneath it. I climbed from the sea, clean, cold and winded. I smiled. I walked back for my jacket. The woman was gone. I headed down west cliff, over the railroad tracks, across the lagoon, to my home beneath the willow tree, beside the brook.