We turned off the highway shortly after 10 p.m. There were no signs I could make out but she knew the way. The one-lane road was paved, unlit. No street signs, no lane markers, no barriers that separated it from the wild. We approached a short, heavy gate that opened up to another long, dark road. Weird, she said. It’s late; why is that open? The heavy red legs were swung out at different angles, as if the wind had a say in it. Just in case, we parked our 4-Runner outside the gate and got out. A gust blew my door shut.
We weren’t supposed to be here. I left the flashlight. The bright half moon revealed the intimate details of the contours of the clouds that surrounded it and the world below glowed with flat, deathly pale luminescence. Our path was well lit. Only the shadows lurking under tall, thorny mesquite trees could have held any secrets from us. The only sounds were of wind and crickets. Ah, I said with a grin, this is the stuff horror movies are made of.
Behind a thick grove of trees to the right I spotted the barely visible orange glow of an artificial light. It was the only sign of life around. Edging closer we approached a chain-link gate, unlocked, unmarked. Propped up by a couple rusty poles, it opened to a dirt road that quietly curved down beyond the trees, towards the glow we could no longer see. No fence was attached to keep foot traffic out but we decided it looked uninviting enough. It creaked back and forth in the gusts like a warning to intruders that it wouldn’t sit idly by if they tried to enter. This doesn’t seem right, she said. This isn’t the place.
We left the gate squeaking behind us and walked, briskly but not too swiftly, back to the vehicle. On second thought, maybe this is it, she said; let’s check it out again. Once back inside the 4-Runner we crept through the gate with the swinging red legs, down the road, past the trees hiding the orange glow and the creaking unmarked gate. The road ended at a small parking lot. The signs, illuminated in our headlights, warned of strong currents and a rocky shoreline. No lifeguard on duty. Yeah, we’re here, she said, and once again we left the 4-Runner outside the gate with the swinging red legs.
With a little more confidence we restarted our descent on foot when another car turned off the highway and crawled down the one-lane road towards us. We stopped behind the 4-Runner to avoid its headlights and waited for it to pass. It continued past us without hesitance and turned into the road past the gate with the swinging red legs. It stopped at the creaky unmarked one, the headlights challenging it, exposing it, stripping it naked of its mystery. The passenger got out and pushed the rusty little thing aside and the car strode through. He closed it, got in the car and they followed the unpaved road, past the trees, toward the orange glow, and disappeared from sight.
We didn’t care for the private property and snuck by the unmarked gate. It still creaked in warning but we now called its bluff. Behind the parking lot and caution signs, some picnic tables rested by an unlit restroom building. We let them rest and followed the moonlight to the breaking waves. They spilled past jagged rocks that jutted through the sand without warning like shards of broken glass scattered after a party that had gotten a little too wild. The waves reached up and up and kept stretching like hungry fingertips. When they could reach no further they retreated empty-handed and prepared for another attack. We followed the shore just beyond the grasp of the hungry waves and studied the shadows under the mesquite trees as much as our naked eyes could allow. Sometimes people sleep here, she said. Comforting.
We settled down far from the shadows in a meadow of moonlight. No one could see us but the hungry waves. We were sitting in their footprints, the sand under us flattened by their grip some minutes, hours before. We couldn’t let our guard down from our predators, but she looked behind us and sprang up.
Shit, she exclaimed. I turned around. Beyond the shadows of mesquite trees stood a small house, dark and lifeless. It was colored a kind of dark red that could have been vibrant when painted on years ago and parched from endless days under the sun. On the porch a once-white hammock swung silently with each gust.
Relax, I said, more to myself than to her. We’ll be more hidden if we sit still. The thick brush concealed us from the land, but we couldn’t escape the beasts ahead, those insatiable fingers of the sea. So spot by spot we moved like migratory birds, looking for the right perch far enough from harm’s way. Within the shadows on the bent, low-lying trunks of some thorny mesquite we rested, lit up a smoke and cracked open some Blue Moon sedatives. Between nervous chatter my gaze drifted through the leaves overhead, back up to the glowing half moon, her craters dimpling the otherwise pure-white sphere like the scars and wrinkles of an aged face.
She hung so quietly, gently leaving her imprint on the humming sea, the hungry fingers, the whispering trees, the lifeless red house, the creaky gate, everything but us and the shadows. Yet none of them could touch her back. So silent, so powerful, so intangible, so --
A preying wave caught me distracted and took its chance to attack. It tumbled towards our shadowy refuge -- how did it find us? -- and we scrambled out of its reach. Walked, briskly but not too swiftly, away from the silent hammock, past the resting picnic tables, past the creaking gate, past the orange glow, up the long, dirt road and through the gate with the swinging red legs. Back in the car, safe under the glow of the moonlight. Back home.
Even paradise has a dark side.
We weren’t supposed to be here. I left the flashlight. The bright half moon revealed the intimate details of the contours of the clouds that surrounded it and the world below glowed with flat, deathly pale luminescence. Our path was well lit. Only the shadows lurking under tall, thorny mesquite trees could have held any secrets from us. The only sounds were of wind and crickets. Ah, I said with a grin, this is the stuff horror movies are made of.
Behind a thick grove of trees to the right I spotted the barely visible orange glow of an artificial light. It was the only sign of life around. Edging closer we approached a chain-link gate, unlocked, unmarked. Propped up by a couple rusty poles, it opened to a dirt road that quietly curved down beyond the trees, towards the glow we could no longer see. No fence was attached to keep foot traffic out but we decided it looked uninviting enough. It creaked back and forth in the gusts like a warning to intruders that it wouldn’t sit idly by if they tried to enter. This doesn’t seem right, she said. This isn’t the place.
We left the gate squeaking behind us and walked, briskly but not too swiftly, back to the vehicle. On second thought, maybe this is it, she said; let’s check it out again. Once back inside the 4-Runner we crept through the gate with the swinging red legs, down the road, past the trees hiding the orange glow and the creaking unmarked gate. The road ended at a small parking lot. The signs, illuminated in our headlights, warned of strong currents and a rocky shoreline. No lifeguard on duty. Yeah, we’re here, she said, and once again we left the 4-Runner outside the gate with the swinging red legs.
With a little more confidence we restarted our descent on foot when another car turned off the highway and crawled down the one-lane road towards us. We stopped behind the 4-Runner to avoid its headlights and waited for it to pass. It continued past us without hesitance and turned into the road past the gate with the swinging red legs. It stopped at the creaky unmarked one, the headlights challenging it, exposing it, stripping it naked of its mystery. The passenger got out and pushed the rusty little thing aside and the car strode through. He closed it, got in the car and they followed the unpaved road, past the trees, toward the orange glow, and disappeared from sight.
We didn’t care for the private property and snuck by the unmarked gate. It still creaked in warning but we now called its bluff. Behind the parking lot and caution signs, some picnic tables rested by an unlit restroom building. We let them rest and followed the moonlight to the breaking waves. They spilled past jagged rocks that jutted through the sand without warning like shards of broken glass scattered after a party that had gotten a little too wild. The waves reached up and up and kept stretching like hungry fingertips. When they could reach no further they retreated empty-handed and prepared for another attack. We followed the shore just beyond the grasp of the hungry waves and studied the shadows under the mesquite trees as much as our naked eyes could allow. Sometimes people sleep here, she said. Comforting.
We settled down far from the shadows in a meadow of moonlight. No one could see us but the hungry waves. We were sitting in their footprints, the sand under us flattened by their grip some minutes, hours before. We couldn’t let our guard down from our predators, but she looked behind us and sprang up.
Shit, she exclaimed. I turned around. Beyond the shadows of mesquite trees stood a small house, dark and lifeless. It was colored a kind of dark red that could have been vibrant when painted on years ago and parched from endless days under the sun. On the porch a once-white hammock swung silently with each gust.
Relax, I said, more to myself than to her. We’ll be more hidden if we sit still. The thick brush concealed us from the land, but we couldn’t escape the beasts ahead, those insatiable fingers of the sea. So spot by spot we moved like migratory birds, looking for the right perch far enough from harm’s way. Within the shadows on the bent, low-lying trunks of some thorny mesquite we rested, lit up a smoke and cracked open some Blue Moon sedatives. Between nervous chatter my gaze drifted through the leaves overhead, back up to the glowing half moon, her craters dimpling the otherwise pure-white sphere like the scars and wrinkles of an aged face.
She hung so quietly, gently leaving her imprint on the humming sea, the hungry fingers, the whispering trees, the lifeless red house, the creaky gate, everything but us and the shadows. Yet none of them could touch her back. So silent, so powerful, so intangible, so --
A preying wave caught me distracted and took its chance to attack. It tumbled towards our shadowy refuge -- how did it find us? -- and we scrambled out of its reach. Walked, briskly but not too swiftly, away from the silent hammock, past the resting picnic tables, past the creaking gate, past the orange glow, up the long, dirt road and through the gate with the swinging red legs. Back in the car, safe under the glow of the moonlight. Back home.
Even paradise has a dark side.
Beach 69, also called Waialea Bay Beach, is located on the Big Island of Hawaii, U.S.A.
Thanks to Akemi.
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