My novels, well one of the ones I’ve published and two that I’m working on, are about ships on the deep blue sea. But those ships are in the sea, not down at the beach.
I don’t like the beach because it’s covered with sand and dead animals, and has creepy little monsters that squiggle away underground as the waves recede. It’s cold and damp and it leaves a slime on your glasses that only smears when you try to wipe it off. Ick.
But, here I am, staying in a room in Lincoln Beach, Oregon, with a stunning view. It’s called Sailor Jack’s, and the room is rustic, but features a huge window which opens to admit the sound that can only be heard on Earth.
The ocean has beat against the shore for around four billion years, exceeded in age only by the rocks themselves. Liquid water doesn’t sit on the surface of any other celestial body we’ve observed, which makes the ocean, and therefore the sound it makes, uniquely Earthen. If the aliens are here, you can be sure it’s to go to the beach.
We’re here because we’re trying to deliver our daughter to her university in Salem, but the knucklehead white supremacists threaten to attack the state capitol across the street from the school because democracy won out over tyranny.
But they didn’t show because, typically, they’re full of bluff and blunder. In fact, as the promised riot is supposed to be going on, my daughter’s on a Zoom meeting with her on-campus Latin teacher. He said it’s quite cold there, but quiet. Bluff.
So, here am I, marooned at this dreadful beach…okay, it is kinda pretty… while my daughter attends class and my wife works, both remotely.
Dang it! There’s even sand in my French fries!
John D Reinhart 