A sabayon-yellow sun dangles low in the bleached-blue sky as we push through waves of goldenrod and yarrow, down onto the secluded stretch of beach. Tank top, camisole, flip-flops and espadrilles scatter on the slope of pebble and scrub brush behind us. Theo, tugging at my cut-offs while I fumble with his cargos. We lie with abandon — pleasuring, laughing, and remembering — until the shifting sun sails on through the west, leaving us to cool in the shade of the cathedral grove of giant Douglas Fir. Not since teenagers, did we savour one another in this ancient traditional territory. The tide slips back to reveal tiny fragments of petal-pink shell, black sea fan, and lace coral; forgotten secrets where sea meets sand. We don discarded clothing and wander on exploring the bedazzled, winding coastline. Stepping over intertidal pools teeming with microscopic creatures, mussels, periwinkles, urchin, and clams, and taking care to not disturb sessile purple sea stars and burrowing hermit crabs, we hold hands cherishing this spur-of-the-moment tryst. Twenty meters out from shore, two shiny black heads bob, eyes wide, whiskers-thick, displaying the distinctive v-shaped nostrils of young harbour seals. Their playful caterpillar-like hitching movements in and out of the surf; enchanting and absorbing. Reminding us of who we once were. Theo glances at me, wistful, sweet. We pause for a while to watch the pups, our backs leaning against a lattice of driftwood and timber, the assembly balancing like a Calder mobile. The moment elastic and dreamy. And then we hear it — an explosive whoosh; a huffing — the release of a burden. Then nothing. Before we dismiss the intrusion as an obscure anomaly, there is another unsettling rush. The sound echoing from west to east. We look for a lightning fissure. But the sky remains clear. Again, the sound knifes the air. Our fingers intertwine, clutch tight. And now we see it. A plume of spray discharging far in the distance. The air is impregnated thick with brine, and angst. The two seals dive, leaving us to confront the ghostly spectre alone. I twist around to charge up the embankment toward the headwaters. Theo grabs my wrist and whispers, Wait. My chest pounding. The light, spectral, thinning, eerie; everything signals we should go. It has been a decade since we last meant something to one another; now this brief sublime lingering passion tugging at us. But there is nothing calling me to follow him here. Yet I once again feel his pull, trust his practiced instinct. We trudge atop the sand in silence, traversing like hopscotch over rocks, driftwood, Japanese glass float, and felled beached timber. Fair winds rustle the brush like witches’ broom. The sky, morphing into a sober Payne’s grey draws us farther away from safe harbour. The formidable whoosh a steady refrain. As we round the rocky coastline, we see it. There, in the shallows, a colossal vantablack hulk of a leviathan, inert, save for its last drawn-out gasps of air. Anaemic and exhausted, its eye turned seaward, fate decided. Its desperate struggle and resignation over. We stand like sentries, suspended in time, helpless, as it slowly collapses under its own weight. A low sonorous wail, its last lament. It is over all too quickly. The moment thin like parchment. The beach, a silent requiem. We lose everything we love, Theo mouths. A temporary opening in the lining of the universe. The great cetacean but a memory. Our blissful afternoon as if it never happened. In the distance, whistles, clicks, low-frequency pops, and jaw claps; the light folding like origami. "The Salish Sea" was published in The Journal of Radical Wonder December, 2022.
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