I saw a ghost once. Well, actually I believe I have seen them more than once, however at least this one time I can tell you with a straight face that I in fact saw a ghost. And more importantly, no matter how you try to reason it away, I will never believe anything else. The other instances may be argued as there are quite possibly more than one explanation for their 'appearance' I suppose.
After all, I am not completely unreasonable.
My latest experience with the paranormal was not so 'para' as it was normal, but it was unusual none the less.
Having arrived at Indian at a little after 6:00 am or so, the parking lot was mostly empty. In fact there was only one other vehicle in the lot and it did not look surfish at all I suppose. I pulled into the first spot, over by the table, and got out with a warm cup of coffee and a bit of a shiver in the early damp air. Fog was rolling about on the outside and the swell, what little there was, was pretty much crashing quickly on the minus low tide. There was not a soul in the water, or so I thought.
I watched for a while and had a smoke as I sipped the dank stuff from within the stained mug. I sat there feeling uneasy about it all. I have not been in the water in around 2 years. I glanced back over to the truck where the Con laid lazily in the bed as sheets of fog began to filter in .
I walked back to the truck, deposited the stained mug on the floor mat and picked up the Nikon.
As I headed down to the beach I took note of the wooden steps and paused as I had not really remembered there being any wooden steps on the trail down to the beach and I wondered just how long they have been there. I strolled to the beach and began to walk out, way out, to where the sand was meeting the business end of energy that was generated in some fetch far offshore.
A flock of seagulls (no...not that one) stood mostly defiant to my approach. A few scattered here and there and some flew and landed again. Others scampered about. Light filtered in between the sheets of fog and provided some interesting lighting for the few hundred frames I would fire off of the gulls, tide pools, rocks, and waves.
Photographing waves from the beach without a telescopic lens never works out as well as one romanticizes about in the moment.
The fog thickened as I explored the exposed rock faces and tide pools. Small creatures scattered about in each of the pools, and small lines of white water would occasionally push into the rocks and pools. Two crows sat staunchly atop a rock well over head and semi-ride-able waves broke in the exposed cove to the outside of those rocks.
Somewhere in the fog, the damp air, the dance of the gulls, or the soft crashing of waves, an apparition appeared or at least made itself known to me. I did not really see it, however as staunchly as I would defend having seen the one I will certainly defend having felt or known it.
And I did know it.
It was me. Or moreover, was me.
I retreated the to the safety of the picnic table and stained cup above. I sat there as more fog whispered in and swirled about as it obliterated my view of what surf there might have been. In the fog these ghosts cackled and called to me like lost boys. I half expected Keifer to come to me through the fog only with my face and fangs. But he didn't.
The cackles and calls tortured me as I sat there. I was reminded of what surfing had been, what I always wanted it to be, and sadly, what it wasn't, for me. The people, places, waves, beaches, rocks, boards, bikinis, wetsuits, Christmas lights, and damp air haunted my heart. I felt remorseful for what I have done with this surfing thing and for what I had done to those I had known in ad around it. If surfing could manifest itself into a creature it would have come at me dragging chains through that fog.
I was suddenly afraid of not only my past or my future, but of surfing. Or maybe, afraid of losing what surfing had been to me...or maybe even more...fearful of having already lost what it had been to me.
My head was spinning, my heart was pounding, my soul was awash in loss, and the waves were obliterated in fog.
I climbed back into the truck and headed into Cannon Beach to see and old friend. We chatted a while and I could tell that he could sense my wariness. Many times there was this strange silence as we stood there staring at each other. Then again, people are strange when you're a stranger right? So who knows.
I left there and sought solace in a chocolate milk and some ding dongs. As I attempted to wash away my sins in a baptism of chocolate, I found myself back on that winding road through the fog and back to the empty parking lot and picnic table.
A more surfish looking crew pulled in, glanced at me in my anguish, and walked down the steps. I sat there in my truck, chocolate dripping about my beard and decided to head south.
Maybe I will just photograph stuff down the coast and pull into PC with the board hanging out the back at least looking like I had been interested in looking for surf. I figured by the time I got there it would be too late and the waves would be crappy and I would not have to paddle out and...wait... 'have to paddle out'? 'Look like I was interested in looking for waves'?
What the f@#K was going on?
What have I been up too all of these years?
What had all of this become for me?
More to come later.......