Safe Harbor

3 - Maeve

3 - Maeve

At that time of year, this beach should be littered with tourists. I wondered briefly why most kept to the harbor, then decided to simply enjoy soaking up the freshness.

I was walking back toward the rock, when I heard an alarmed high-pitched chirp in front of me. Two plovers flap-flapped by my position, before landing farther on the beach.

Someone was walking the sand, coming from the pier. I could make out faded jeans, a checkered black-green-blue shirt. No backpack. Loose strands of gray hair peeked out of a fisherman’s cap.

The lone figure strode on the beach like a giant stork, thin legs pumping the sand, one fist occasionally punching at the air.

Wow, was that kick worthy of a NFL game start!

Even from afar, I could see individual gobs of mud flying off. No need to be a psychic to see that this was one troubled soul. He must have descended on the beach while I was walking on the other side, sheltered from view by the projected rock.

Prudence and months of traveling alone in the wilderness prompted me to get out of the water, retrieve my socks and hiking shoes, then scuttle away to the much-animated harbor. Problem was, his trajectory would cut me from my shoes resting on the rock. Plus, I was ankle-deep in the brine.

The guy had not seen me. Presently, he was ascending the artistic rock face. Crap. He would see my unattended backpack. And I couldn’t run fast enough if he decided to steal it.

I tensed, prepared to wage an heroic backpack rescue.

No. He had stopped mid-slope and turned to admire the harbor. Maybe he had not seen the backpack. Or he had, and was searching for the owner’s presence in his favorite place…

After a beat or two, he descended.

I could surge off and run up to my pack.

Alas, pride was a harsh mistress: the crazy would see me running like a hare from him. No way I would switch sidewalks like a stalked prey. Never show your fear, my self-defense instructor had said.

So I decided to mask my concern under a cool attitude, and waded in some more. I wasn’t squeamish of cold water soaking my rolled-on pants when high surf rolled on.

The underwater mud was easy to thread, past the row of pebbles, so I could safely put one hundred feet of sea water between any predator and me.

Presently the walker had slowed down as he reached the end of the rock. I ignored him, making a show of scrutinizing the pier jutting out of the harbor. With luck he would get the message.

As I looked at the pier, I pulled out my small binoculars from my waist pocket. I followed the water breaker line to the pier, then to the shops and restaurants huddled close together, as if to weather a storm. I followed the entire pier length with my augmented vision. Barnacles shells and seaweeds ringed the wooden supporting posts at the waterline. There was one freshly replaced, its gray metal surface still gleaming, with only a thin ring of seaweed. I checked the other pillars, a professional reflex from another life.

I spotted a slight curvature of the pier under the first hanging patio. The post under that bamboo restaurant was riddled with algae, shells and maybe bird nests. Moreover, the shaft looked burnt over the waterline, with some black soot showing under the adjacent pier platform beams. I couldn’t see more as the shadow kept the underside dark. I wondered how something this close to the water line could have burnt like that.

At this moment, two things happened.

Over the bird calls, I heard a series of splashes and a shout. A shape was sloshing toward me. The guy, hatless now. A gust of wind had pulled the hat off his unkept gray hair.

As my attention was redirected toward this menace, a white-hot pain shot up my leg.

In all my hiking days, I had cut myself on sharp cacti needles, twist my ankle on rocks, been bitten by red ants, bees, even a yellow jacket swarm, you name it.

This beat them all. Coming from an inflated plastic bag!

It felt as if a heated ironing board had been pressed on my knee, or if one of those Sci-Fi movies Aliens had slobbered pure acid on my left leg.

I hissed and jumped away from the rippled bag reflecting a rainbow of colors dominated by the blue. Then I noticed the plastic bag was trailing a bunch of wavy lines.

One graceful tendril trailed close to my exposed knee. I recoiled, but my move in the water brought the thing closer. A new flash of pain shot at the exact same point it touched. Such beauty, and such pain dealt by a jellyfish!

A new surging wave almost made me fall flat over it.

Almost being an arm yanking me off water, while a pale shoe stamped down, crushing the bag-like jellyfish under its rubber sole.

Another rolling wave crashed, higher, and almost brought us under. My savior dragged me toward the beach, still yelling nonsense about those damn nightmares.

Out of the water, pain returned. I sat down, rocking back and forth. I had expected the pain to recede; it did not. Small red welts had appeared on the underside of the rotula, a cloud of tiny triangles, as if I had kneeled on a bed of sharp rocks. All those docs about people poisoned by jellyfish tugged at my memory, adding panic to my pain.

“Crap,” I groaned.

The local went on with his rant, snatching up the fallen cap from where it had landed.

“Even with warning signs every kilometer, some i***t will wade in…”

Despite the pain dissolving my knee, I found out the things that felt off in the guy. His raucous voice was too high-pitched. It could have been a teenager’s voice breaking but not with this shoulder-length gray hair. Then I notice the beardless face, the skin just too smooth, and the angry eyes, a faded shade of blue tinged with gray.

“What were you thinking of, stupid frat boy?”

Oookay, I thought.

That makes two of us.