A Somewhat Less Than Divine Comedy
Driftwood: A Prelude to the Evening
'Let me to take you down -- 'Cause I'm going to strawberry fields' Lennon/McCartney
Rogues Bay, Tortola, BVI
Today
There were a few low clouds scudding over the far horizon, yet all-in-all the day's weather was looking good -- better than good, really, especially for the time of year. The air was cool enough to feel -- vaguely -- like Christmas, at least to folks her in the eastern Caribbean, yet the air was warm enough for shorts -- and clinging sand between toes. The late-morning trades had yet to fill-in, so motion inside the narrow, finger shaped bay was still calm, and a single, blue-hulled ketch rode gently at anchor a hundred meters off the small, kidney shaped beach. For a Christmas morning in the British Virgins, the bay and the boat presented a serene, if marginally holiday-like picture, to the man and the Springer emerging from a shrubby, overgrown trail at the south end of the bay.
The dog, an ancient Spaniel named Charley, walked dutifully by the man's side. Hers was a possessive, indeed, a protective soul, and she had been with this human all her life, almost from the moment of her birth. Though they hadn't always been so close, for the past several months the two had become all but inseparable: she slept on his bed -- usually nestled under his chin -- and rode with him in all his various contraptions -- with her ears flapping in the airstream...and a deep grin peeking out from fluttering jowls. She, generally speaking, went everywhere he went, and tended to look after him as best she could, and it was a rare day when they were apart for more than a few hours. And she hated those small snippets of time most of all, so she lived, on the other hand, for the long walks they took, especially walks on long sandy beaches or up in the high mountains, near timberline, where she could fly from rock to rock in pursuit of small, fury tundra dwellers. Still, more than anything else in her world, she loved it when he rubbed her ears. That feeling, she'd heard him say more than once, was the unshelled nuts...the very best thing there was. She stared into his eyes when he did that, and she wanted her soul to join with his.
So, she loved him in her way, cared for him at least much as he cared for her, and she slowed her step to keep pace with his as he trudged through the sand, and she looked up at him from time to time, checked the way he breathed, because something in the air was troubling her.
There was, she noted, something on his face, a cloud in his eyes, perhaps, that concerned her, and he was breathing a little too hard as they walked. She slowed her pace a bit more and pretended to take more than a passing interest in the few clumps of grass they passed, and she looked up at him as he stopped, as he took a few deep breaths through his mouth, then her eyes followed his as he looked down the beach.
"Charley? I think there's a good piece down there," he said as he pointed down the beach. She looked where he was pointing, and yes, there it was -- she could see it now too. A huge piece of ragged, gray wood. Driftwood, he called it. She took off at an ambling, curious pace, but then heard something that stopped her where she stood.
She turned, looked at the boat in the bay -- then cocked her head to one side.
"Get out of here, you goddamned, fucked-up bitch!"
She recognized the tone, and even a few of the words. Angry words. Mean, hurtful words. An angry human's words. The hair on Charley's neck stood on-end as she looked at the boat, then she heard contact -- rough, physical contact, a wounded scream, pots falling on hard surfaces, more shocked cries of anguish -- and retribution.
She stared at the boat, her concern now evident to the man walking well behind her on the beach. She looked back at him and barked once, a low, guttural sound full of suppressed anger, then she turned her attention back to the boat. She knew his attention would be focused there too; she knew because she felt that certain connection had settled between them -- again.
A woman, half naked and screaming, ran up onto deck and dove overboard; more angry words followed in her wake as another person, one who almost appeared to be a man, came on deck just after the woman hit the water. This man yelled and threw a bag overboard; it almost hit the woman in the water, then floated a moment before it began to sink out of view.
Instinct set in and without thinking Charley sprinted down the beach and leapt into the water, she swam past the startled woman and dove under a small wave just as the bag disappeared from view. The water stung her eyes but she saw it and swam for it, took the bag's strap in her mouth then clawed her way back to the surface. Unaccustomed to such an awkward, heavy load, she struggled to make her way back to the beach, only now, to make matters worse, the grainy water stung her eyes. Soon she felt the first screams of panic welling up, and suddenly wondered why she was out in such deep water, yet even so as her head popped out from under a wave she knew her anxiety was misplaced.
There he was, just a few strokes away now, coming for her. She climbed into his outstretched arms and put her hands around his neck, licked his chin. He took the strap from her mouth and lifted her well clear of the water, then she licked his scruffy beard more than a few times, enjoying, as she always did, the way his fur felt on her tongue.
He carried her along until the water was shallow enough, then he set her down and they trudged out of the water, turned and waited for the woman, who was not yet out of the water. The man picked up his backpack on the way to her and slung it back over his shoulder, and Charley ran up to the woman and sniffed her ankles, circling round and round while he walked. The woman sat down on the white sand and looked at the pup once; the woman's eyes were full of tears and she was breathing in deep, ragged gulps, and Charley could see the woman had a kind, if troubled soul. She came to the woman, sat and leaned into her body -- as if to help hold her grief in check.
The woman leaned into Charley too, and put an arm around her, then began crying deeply, indeed, almost uncontrollably. Charley understood, but looked at her own human as he walked up to them. His skin was very pale now, and clearly concerned, she focused on his eyes once again.
Something still wasn't right; she could see his distress within the shimmering air all around his body, feel it in the way the colors around him changed.
When the man got to them, he sat down heavily on the sand.
"Are you alright?" she heard him ask the woman.
Startled, the woman shook her head, then looked up and let go of Charley.
Charley slipped free of the woman and went to his side; she leaned into him as if re-establishing a physical connection and concentrated on his beating heart while she listened to him breathe. She looked up at him and licked his neck while she sniffed his breath, trying to make sense of all she was taking in.
"It's okay, girl," Charley heard him say, but she wasn't sure yet so she leaned in closer still, pressing into him, in effect propping up his body while she continued to listen to him. Then all of a sudden he was rubbing her ears and she slipped into bliss, so down she flopped -- down on her back -- in tail-wagging ecstasy. "Yes, it's okay now, good girl...just take it easy..."
"Did your dog go for my bag, or did you tell her to?" Charley heard the woman ask.
"That was all her. She's kind of acts like a retriever, when she wants to, anyway. I guess she saw your bag being thrown and instinct kicked in."
The woman laughed through her tears. "What's her name?"
"Charley."
"Charley?"
"Yup. She's a Steinbeck fan, I guess you'd have to say."
"Who?"
