To the Reader: this little tale is part memory and part myth. The cove and the two women exhibitionists are things I remember from a trip in Northern California. The supernatural elements are inspired by the nickname a lover gave to me, "Siren". --Giada
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It was a lonely stretch of road we were on and everything in the world seemed shades of gray. The asphalt was that dark slated hue, the wide sky at the end of the continent a steel blue, the quiet ocean a pale sage while all the rocks and cliffs were like sable obsidian. Even the breeze blowing in my dark ravenous hair was chilled. Everything spoke of a lack of warmth. The sun itself was not bold here, looking more like a distance observer, a forsaken lover, pale and faint in its glare from the far west.
We had parked because I wanted to walk along the beach here, wanted to experience the coves of black stones first hand. My adventurous heart always desired such things, we may never be this way again I would tell myself and so often those words turned out to be true. We would never be this way again; our journey together was soon coming to an end.
The pathway down along the dark cliff to the beach was steep and the rocks sharp, we held hands so I would not fall on my butt as we walked along a dangerous decline over the small scree fields. I was wrapped up in a long sweater, tight jeans and hikers. This was not a place for sunbathing or body surfing, it was dim mysterious and empty, so more suited to gothic foreboding.
We got down to the wonder that was the beach. It was not one of sand, instead it was all tiny rocks, pebbles and chips of drift wood all black-ink like in color then dotted with tiny pearls of white gleaming shells twinkling like stars on a deep night. The foamy surf crawled over the pebbles of the cove and in its wake left a soft rumbling echo in our ears.
I always felt a sense of longing at such moments, staring out at the deep virescent sea. The land always felt like a cage, gravity a chain that kept my wayward feet bound to the ground. The wildness of my heart felt the pull of the tides, the raw briny scent lingering on the air was idyllic to my lungs.
We strolled quietly along, just beyond the reaching grasp of the sea swells, not daring to disrupt the beauty of the sublime time we shared. And that is when we saw sitting on a boulder, with a soft wave splashing around the jutting rock, a white backpack. It was crisp appearing and not weathered meaning it had probably not been there long and someone else was also down here in the cove, probably. I did not recall seeing another car where we parked though.
We ventured closer to the boulder and searched for a way over the rocks. My slender fingers on the sable stone, finding handholds we peered over the top, seeing an alcove beach on the other side between the cliffs and boulders. We heard voices first between the rumbling echoes of the tide, two woman talking to each other but the words were soft and unclear. We laid flat upon the boulder, listened and watched.