of Danny riding a wave. He was crouched and had his arms perfectly balanced within a curl, a misty mane rising from the breaking water. He looked to be at total peace, reverent even, as if entering a holy place. Amidst tons of crashing sea, he’d found his temple.
I set the photo down to focus on a letter in Danny’s handwriting beside which lay an envelope addressed to me. Inclined to pen more than keyboard, he often sent letters by snail mail, and because I knew he enjoyed receiving letters in turn, I reciprocated the favor. I began reading the letter …
Dear Jason,
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but things have been busy. Wanted to tell you about something weird that happened about a month ago. Someone broke into my cabin. A strange thing given we have no crime here. Even stranger was they took your letters … nothing else … no cash, no tools … only your letters.
Go figure.
I dropped the sheet and ran to the car. Jumping in, I gunned the engine and sped away, leaving the persimmons, cows, and meadow in a blur. At Highway 1, I turned north and glanced into my mirror with terror, sure someone was after me. Why else would they have taken my letters from Danny’s cabin? Not only that, but shortly after moving to Bethesda, a set of my diaries in which I’d recorded, among other things, my long friendship with Danny had vanished from my home. Now, having read Danny’s final letter, I had no doubt I’d been robbed. As in Danny’s case, the perpetrator had stolen only written materials; everything else was left intact. My diaries, it now occurred to me, had marked Danny as a target.
But two questions haunted me: Who was the perpetrator, and why was he after me?
With just over two hours remaining before I was due to meet Danny’s parents, I drove to the rendezvous site, a place called Bean Hollow State Park located along the coast north of Marinero. According to the map, Half Moon Bay was another forty-five minutes north of Bean Hollow, which meant Danny drove over an hour each day to tend to his surf shop. In one of his letters, he told me how much he enjoyed the drive because it took him along the coast the entire way. As he drove, he lowered his window to take in the cold air and watch swells roll in from the Pacific.
I opened a window in memory of my friend. The wind slapped me like a cold, wet towel, as if scolding me for not being Danny Rogers who it normally greeted each day. With penitence, I followed the undulating asphalt past deserted bays until a sign appeared for Bean Hollow State Park. I turned into a vacant parking lot and took a space facing the sea. A yard before me was a four- to six-foot drop-off that led to a long arc of sand that stretched in both directions. At one end, a shadowy hill tapered to the ocean while at the other, a promontory jutted into the sea. Enclosed by the arc was a bay, its inner waters calm, but beyond the inlet, massive rollers formed from an abrupt rise of the seabed. Through the receding fog, jets of white water surged into the bay. I shuddered at the thought of Danny riding those waves.
I stepped out of the car. Below, strewn across the sand, were remnants of kelp, their gas bladders resembling rubber balls the sea had rolled ashore. I envisioned Danny jogging across the sand, tossing his surf board into the water, and paddling to the rollers. I felt my body rise and fall with the swells, each growing larger than the previous. Having taken a surfing lesson from Eve in Australia, I imagined catching a wave and riding it with Danny beside me, the two of us laughing with joy. A gust then whipped across the sand and sent me back into the car.
Shivering, I locked the doors and turned on the motor. With a stream of warm air blowing at me, I soon fell asleep. The next thing I knew, a tapping awoke me. I bolted forward and turned the ignition. It made a grinding sound from the idling engine. Looking out the window, I saw two faces peering in at me. I turned
I set the photo down to focus on a letter in Danny’s handwriting beside which lay an envelope addressed to me. Inclined to pen more than keyboard, he often sent letters by snail mail, and because I knew he enjoyed receiving letters in turn, I reciprocated the favor. I began reading the letter …
Dear Jason,
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but things have been busy. Wanted to tell you about something weird that happened about a month ago. Someone broke into my cabin. A strange thing given we have no crime here. Even stranger was they took your letters … nothing else … no cash, no tools … only your letters.
Go figure.
I dropped the sheet and ran to the car. Jumping in, I gunned the engine and sped away, leaving the persimmons, cows, and meadow in a blur. At Highway 1, I turned north and glanced into my mirror with terror, sure someone was after me. Why else would they have taken my letters from Danny’s cabin? Not only that, but shortly after moving to Bethesda, a set of my diaries in which I’d recorded, among other things, my long friendship with Danny had vanished from my home. Now, having read Danny’s final letter, I had no doubt I’d been robbed. As in Danny’s case, the perpetrator had stolen only written materials; everything else was left intact. My diaries, it now occurred to me, had marked Danny as a target.
But two questions haunted me: Who was the perpetrator, and why was he after me?
With just over two hours remaining before I was due to meet Danny’s parents, I drove to the rendezvous site, a place called Bean Hollow State Park located along the coast north of Marinero. According to the map, Half Moon Bay was another forty-five minutes north of Bean Hollow, which meant Danny drove over an hour each day to tend to his surf shop. In one of his letters, he told me how much he enjoyed the drive because it took him along the coast the entire way. As he drove, he lowered his window to take in the cold air and watch swells roll in from the Pacific.
I opened a window in memory of my friend. The wind slapped me like a cold, wet towel, as if scolding me for not being Danny Rogers who it normally greeted each day. With penitence, I followed the undulating asphalt past deserted bays until a sign appeared for Bean Hollow State Park. I turned into a vacant parking lot and took a space facing the sea. A yard before me was a four- to six-foot drop-off that led to a long arc of sand that stretched in both directions. At one end, a shadowy hill tapered to the ocean while at the other, a promontory jutted into the sea. Enclosed by the arc was a bay, its inner waters calm, but beyond the inlet, massive rollers formed from an abrupt rise of the seabed. Through the receding fog, jets of white water surged into the bay. I shuddered at the thought of Danny riding those waves.
I stepped out of the car. Below, strewn across the sand, were remnants of kelp, their gas bladders resembling rubber balls the sea had rolled ashore. I envisioned Danny jogging across the sand, tossing his surf board into the water, and paddling to the rollers. I felt my body rise and fall with the swells, each growing larger than the previous. Having taken a surfing lesson from Eve in Australia, I imagined catching a wave and riding it with Danny beside me, the two of us laughing with joy. A gust then whipped across the sand and sent me back into the car.
Shivering, I locked the doors and turned on the motor. With a stream of warm air blowing at me, I soon fell asleep. The next thing I knew, a tapping awoke me. I bolted forward and turned the ignition. It made a grinding sound from the idling engine. Looking out the window, I saw two faces peering in at me. I turned
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