The Book of Strings

6

Our first night in California was spent parked illegally on the side of an unused seaside road. Kip had opened the roof attachment of the Volkswagen to expose our dizzied brains to ocean air. It was early morning over the ocean and from where I sat outside the van I could see movement where the water met the sand. I strained my eyes to better see what disrupted the casually consistent rhythm of the waves.

The water was a light blueish gray in its constant reflection of the sky this early in the morning. Sticking out like a sore thumb was a small collection of black spots. They moved with the water, yet also remained in their almost solidified formation. At first glance, it was easy to mistake the small creatures for driftwood or seaweed. They were stingrays, their benevolence less obvious in their size. They gamboled in a relaxed manner among each other, almost appearing to find entertainment in the way their surroundings rose and fell.

Each wave brought them closer to the shore, preceding certain death. But evasion was a talent of theirs. Every time the sand loomed ahead of them they swept themselves back to open ocean with the same distance.

They so easily lived by avoiding what could so easily impose the opposite.

I rose when the sun did, and returned to our site.