The Prince of Tides & a Surprise from Kona

This afternoon, I drove to Arcadia Beach, a few miles south of Canon Beach, with a friend I'll call King Rex. We left Portland a little after 3 and pulled into the parking lot for the beach around 4:30. (Roads lined with snow -- much to Rex's surprise -- but totally clear and free of traffic. Zoom, zoom!)

Anyway, as we were leaving Portland, I made an off-handed comment to King Rex: Every time I go to the beach, I remind myself to accept the possibility that this may be the day The Pup Brogan meets his maker.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

The Pup chases seagulls into the surf, I replied. A long time ago, I had a premonition that he would someday be swept out to sea. So every time I take him to the beach, part of me acknowledges that possibility.

And every time, I also think that perhaps it would be more "responsible" of me as The Pup's caretaker to keep him on the leash. But if that's how life is to be approached, then I wouldn't allow myself to whitewater raft, wouldn't try to bodysurf, wouldn't swim in the Amazon, wouldn't hire a combi to cross the Maranon Canyon.

The Pup has his thrills; I have mine. The difference is that I'm aware of the danger. He's just ... kinda ... stupid.

After rushing some gulls near a headland and vigorously chasing another dog up and down the beach, The Pup -- a 17-pound Cairn Terrier -- fell in step with us and mainly stayed at my heels.

King Rex and I walked down the beach and at one point talked about the surf. I told him how I had taken my first full-body dip into that icy water last summer when visiting with S2 and her kids at Neskowin. And then I commented, The water is so cold, and there are such strong currents out there that I decided a long time ago that I would not wade out very far in an attempt to save The Pup if he got caught in the tide. I'd even have grave second thoughts about going out after a human. Even a child.

"Why?" King Rex asked.

Because the water is *that* cold and the surf can be that dangerous. I'm a strong swimmer. I've trained lifeguards. I've hauled out my share of drowning people from pools and lakes in Texas, I replied. But that water? It scares me. Too many people who've gone out trying to rescue someone else end up dying themselves. I'd be reluctant to go in over my head.

Is that enough foreshadowing, my Fair Readers?

It should be.

Not soon after those words left my mouth, The Pup eyed a gull near some tidepools and took off full-speed ahead. King Rex and I took a moment to appreciate his speed as The Pup bounded across the hard-packed, wet sand at the surf's edge. We shook our heads as he entered the tide water.

Suddenly, The Pup found a spot where the edge of the beach dropped away without warning. We saw him drop into a watery hole. And for a moment, we laughed.

Then, a wave came in, and as the foamy whitness broke over my little dude's head, every bit of that premonition I had so long ago came to weigh on me.

SHIT! I yelled, and broke into a run through the edge of the tidewater, knowing I would ignore my rational prohibition against entering the surf to rescue my dog. (Obviously, a human can count of me to try.)

I heard King Rex behind me, splashing through the surf. We were both heading toward the spot where The Pup mysteriously dropped. As we closed in, The Pup's head was visible above the edge of the water, swimming without progress as the waves changed place. Before we got there, another wave pushed the pup onto the beach, and he ran from the water.

I issued a sigh of relief, called The Pup to me and touched his sopping-wet ratty little body. He's so much smaller when he's all wet. I bent down and scratched him behind the ear, I hope *that* taught you, I said, because that is as close as you can get without being swept out to sea or crushed in that surf, you silly dog.

Then I looked up at King Rex. His jeans were wet halfway to his knees. "These shoes aren't as waterproof as they're supposed to be," he said. I was glad for his presence. At the very least, someone would need to call the cops after I drowned trying to save my dog....

We continued to walk on the beach until sunset, sitting for the last 20 minutes or so on a blanket and admiring the greys and grey-blues of the Oregon Coast at sundown. Only once after his foray into the surf did The Pup tear after a gull toward the ocean. And that time, he turned around long before he got to the tide's edge. Perhaps he's learned something.

I can only hope. Because I'm not going to leash him up, and I'm not going to leave him home. We all have to die someday. Might as well happen doing something we love.

....

It's on that note that I transition to the other thing that happened today. After returning to Portland, I went to the 9:30 showing of "Pan's Labyrinth" with The Clairvoyant and The One at the Hollywood Theater.

I entered the lobby and, not seeing either one of them, I got into line at the concession stand. While waiting, my phone rang. I answered it. The Clairvoyant asked, "How far from the theater are you?"

I'm *in* the theater, I replied, assuming she and The One were running a little late.

"You're *in* the theater?" she asked, sounding incredulous.

Yes.

There was a long pause. Then, "Uh. Turn around."

In what was a rather empty and small lobby, TC stood about 10 feet behind me, shaking her head. I had waited in line to buy a ticket right in front of her, then walked past her to stand at the small concession stand. "How did I not see you?" she asked, laughing.

I wondered the same thing. It's not like either one of us lacks a certain distinction to our appearance.

She stood next to me in line and handed me a small red paper bag. "This is for you," she said. "I brought it back for you from Kona. Open it before the movie starts."

In the theatre, I took my seat and opened the bag. The first thing I pulled out was a small flashlight with a keychain on the end of it. It was from a bar on Ali'i drive, the main drag in Kailua-Kona, the town where my aunt and uncle live. TC and The One vacationed there a couple weeks ago.

On Valentine's Day, I talked to her briefly. She had told me the sun was setting -- the most beautiful sunset she'd ever seen, she reported -- and that she called out to the setting sun, "Aloha, Liz!" (There is a story I have as yet to tell TC that will give her the shivers when she learns of the coincidence at play in that moment.)

But I digress.

Inside the bag was something rolled up in paper. Given its size and shape, I assumed it was a can of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts, a typical tourist treat from the Big Island. "There's a card," TC said. "Maybe I want you to read the card first."

OK. In the dim light of the theatre, I opened the card. Within seconds, I was blinking away tears.

In her note, TC explained the gift, a candle-holder, is intended to be a reminder of "love shared." A wooden cylindar sized for a tea-light, it was carved on both sides with a Hawaiin motif that looks to me like the sun setting over the ocean. My breath was taken away by the end of TC's note: "We are both so sorry that you lost a such a wonderful mother."

You have no idea what this means to me, I said to TC.

"I think maybe a little, I do," she replied. She reached her arm around me and pulled herself close, putting her face next to mine. "I'm really, really sorry."

TC's card is the only bit of written acknowledgement of Liz's death that I have received. Few of my friends know how important Liz was to me and how deeply I have been affected by her death. To others, perhaps she is "just" my aunt. And then there is one friend who seems oddly incapable of even mentioning the matter to me.

There is something about acknowledgement, especially for the death of a loved one, that feels important to me. Perhaps it is because certain other aspects of my life -- mainly my little gay relationships -- have suffered a lack of social validation. Perhaps it has something to do with how I felt when my friends couldn't stop talking about Michelle Kwan's stress fracture while at the same time avoiding any discussion of my brother having recently entered a vegatative coma. Or perhaps it's just because I think it's basic social convention to let those you care about know that you share a part of their grief, even if you didn't know the deceased, simply because *they* -- the living -- mean something to you.

A week after Liz died, I received some hydroponic tulips from The Good Witch and Cartman, and I was so grateful to have those. For more than two weeks, they persisted in blooming, and each time I saw them in the window, I was reminded not only of one of the most beloved people I had in my life -- a source of joy, a wise woman, someone I truly admired, trusted and loved for 30 years -- but I was also reminded of two friends who shared with me a love of their own.

Last week, I talked for a while with my uncle. At one point, I asked him how he was getting on, what he did to deal with the grief. He told me many things before he added, "Sometimes, when I get feeling lonely and wondering about her cutting out of here so early, I sit down and read the cards people have sent. Somehow, it makes it real, but it also reminds me how much people loved her and love me. That really helps. You know?"

I imagine it helps a lot, I said.

I reflected again, as I had in weeks prior, on how anchoring the written word can be. Unlike the ephemeral nature of speech -- did you remember exactly what was said? can you return to it again and again? can you fold it up and tuck it in your journal? -- the written word lingers and stays just as vivid and tangible as the moment it was written.

I had also noted along the way the absence of any written words that said to me in some fasion: Liz died; she really did die; and you -- yes, you, UCM -- must face that when you read this; and yes, there are people who understand the depth of that loss; and yes, life goes on; and no, she wasn't the last person on the planet who loved you, as can be evidenced by this note, written (as it was) by someone who loves you still. Whether that is what my uncle meant, whether or not that is what he gets from reading those cards to which he referred, it was something I really wanted and needed in my experience. Something to linger with, tuck into my journal and return to at some point when those words might again be helpful.

That is what The Clairvoyant handed me in the theater tonight. Without knowing it, she filled a void in my experience. Like The Good Witch and Cartman, she created an external reality for something I am still having difficulty acknowledging to myself. It is not exactly the kind of thing I want people to "make real" for me. But TC's words were exactly the kind of thing I needed to help push me toward acceptance.

TC wrote, among other things, that she gave me a candle holder so every time I lit it, I would be reminded of Liz and the love we shared. "Then you can remember who gave it to you," she wrote, "and remember two more people love you, too." She added that she hoped the light would prompt me to reflect on *all* the people who love me.

....

I came home from the movie and lit the candle TC had placed in the candle holder. After a moment, I noticed The Pup was standing at my feet, looking at me, his tail slowly wagging. I picked him up and hugged him. His hair held the scent of the ocean, and smelling it prompted me to hug him a little longer.

There is great pain in losing a beloved.

There is also within me immense gratitude for those who go on living.