Perhaps you’re hungover. Maybe even not quite. Perhaps you’re in that ever fading glow of a night whose smallest hours you may not really recall. Or maybe you had a few bingers with breakfast. Bacon and eggs. Warm, toasted something slathered and dripping with butter. Or it could be that you got up at the ass-crack of dawn and went fishing. You fucking hate fishing. So, bleary eyed and bored beyond your welling tears, you pounded a six pack in a three hour tour. Not a six pack of your father’s bland, pedestrian Big Beer pilsner mind you. No your buddy brought “the good shit”. A swill of craft brewed hop flowers that you wouldn’t dare tell him tastes like licking a Smurf’s grundle, because it’s potent, ABV north of eight percent, and you needed to get numb.You’re on the beach. The sun is warm and shining overhead. Not a cloud in the sky. Its fucking hot. You’re fucking melting. There is an occasional rushing breeze, but for all it does to cool your glistening skin, it redoubles the infinite sand in every crease and crevice of your body. The sand chafes as you squirm in your chair. The mob of people around you seems to be breeding like rabbits. The comfortably antisocial territory you have claimed for yourself keeps shrinking. Encroaching on your right border the man with the Buddha belly is likely four yards away, but you swear you can smell the mingling of cheap cologne and oniony body odor as if your face was smashed in his matted fur. Your left front is a flurry of feathers and sand and squealing. A middle aged woman who should not be in a bikini is jiggling with a barrage of shrill insults at her hapless husband as he swats at the vermin with a pink beach towel. Her greasy children think the birdies eating cheese curls are just hilarious.You groan and lift yourself from the chair. The blood rushes to your head, and yep, your headache is no longer imminent. You stagger in the shifting sand toward the shore line. When the first foamy water ripples beneath your toes you shiver. The breeze has shifted and you suddenly aren’t that hot. You slink reluctantly forward. The water is at your ankles. You stop. You bury your feet in the sand but the tide quickly pulls the sand away. You sink deeper, and imagine you could get stuck here. You’re off balance to begin with, but as you sink the wavering becomes more pronounced. “Got to go forwards to go back,” you tell yourself. The waves are now past your knees. The occasional splash begins to shrivel your balls. Then the big one sends your boys packing for a trip back past prepubescence. You’d swear you were choking on them. Nothing left to do but dive under. You duck under an oncoming wave and swim forward. When you come up you find you’ve hit the no man’s land between shallow waters and the first sand bar. The rip is stronger than you anticipated. Truth be told you’re not that strong a swimmer. The next wave rolls into your gaping mouth. You spit and curse and panic. Just a few seconds of hyperventilation but it cost you. The shore seems a mile away. You think for a moment about swimming further out, trying to find the next sand bar, but you know the tide will win. So you collect your balls from your throat, and you begin to swim toward shore. A wave approaches and you’re sure you can surf it back. And lo you seem to catch the wave’s momentum as it passes, but the rip tide has other ideas. You spin. You slam into the sand below. Salt water seeps into your nose. Tumbling and fumbling and choking, you grasp frantically for some sense beyond vertigo. That’s it, you think. You’re going to die. Clearly the current has dragged you out to sea. And you have nothing left. But suddenly you find your footing. Your knees drive into the sand, and you raise yourself above the water. The Drowned God will not have you today. You stand up. Spit. Curse. Cough. Wretch. Cough. Curse. Spit. Snot rocket. You scan the beach for your chair. The crowd around it has doubled. Your personal space is naught. Even still, that shit was scary. But then you realize that your heart is racing. You are no longer cold. Snot rocket. Fuck it. You turn around and dive back into the water.
To Gougey, with love… on Praxe-illogical