Sixty seconds. That’s all I’m going to give myself. Sixty seconds to think about this, then I’m done. It’s not healthy to think this way…
Sixty seconds.
Sixty…fifty-nine…fifty-eight…
The sand is smooth and the waves crash silently. Nothing new about that. There was a time when the whole beach was new to me. Every in and out. Every trough and crest. It was adventurous then and the waves were never silent. Now the only things that keeps it all interesting are the people I come here with. But this time, in the early hours of the morning when the shadows of the bluff begin to retreat, I am alone. And oddly enough, no one is here. No one at all. The usual fisherman and surfer are not present. The beach is deserted. And it’s eerie.
I glance at my wristwatch, 8:29 a.m.
Fifty-three…fifty-two…fifty-one…
I continue to walk alone. The shadows have retreated far enough that I can walk in the warmth of the sun which comforts and reassures me. This reminds me of my childhood. I miss walking with my father. I was around eight-years-old then. My family and I would visit our beach house every so often for the weekend. In the mornings my dad would wake me up and we would go walking on the beach. Exploring, he would call it. Everything was new and surprising. I had no familiarity with the beach. The waves would crash, each with their own powerful impact. First they would rise, then come to a crescendo. The noise would cease, and it seemed void of sound for a moment. Then gravity brought it back down, and the following crash pounded the earth beneath it. I loved that sound; not anymore.
After the weekend was over, my family and I would return home, some odd twenty minutes away from here. Now my home is above the beach, right on the bluff. And I’m much older now. Eighteen.
Thirty-two…thirty-one…thirty…
Ten years ago, weekends that were not spent on visiting the beach house were spent with my friends. Sleepovers. As hilarious as it sounds now, I loved sleepovers back then. I remember waking up in my best friend’s house, the rest of my friends surrounding me, feeling peaceful. The house was quiet, and every tick-tock, tick-tock soothed me. Moses the golden retriever would come over and lick my face to wake me up. Once Moses was confident that I was awake, he would lay beside me, and we would wait together for the rest to wake up.
Twenty-five…twenty-four…twenty-three…
Although the past has passed, I still miss the serenity and simplicity of being a kid.
Nineteen…eighteen…seventeen…
Ahead of me, in the sun-soaked sand, I spot some curious objects. I walk closer towards them, the waves and crunching sand beneath my feet gradually becoming ever more silent. Those look familiar…
Twelve…eleven…ten…
A couch and three parallel sleeping bags lay on the beach. As I approach them, I notice that they are occupied, and I know the occupants. In astonishment I retreat only slightly, but curiosity brings me back. I recognize that my best friends – their eight-year-old selves – lie in two of the sleeping bags and the other on the couch.
Nine…eight…seven…
The sun beats down on me, and I’m sweating. Bewilderment and fear rise within me. The occupant of the third sleeping bag has his face covered. Who’s the fourth person?
Six…five…four…
The waves stop crashing; time is bending and stretching.
I reach for the sleeping bag, eager to remove it to discover the mysterious person under it. As I do so, I notice my wristwatch – the last three seconds.
Three…two…
I grab the sleeping bag and pull. The fourth stranger is…
One…
Me.
The clock goes tick-tock, tick-tock… and I open my eyes.
A soft pit-pat, pit-pat makes its way towards me. “Oh, Moses!” Moses is licking my face to wake me up again. “C’mon, Moses. Why do you gotta do that, boy?” He has really soft fur. “Good, boy.”
He lays down next to me. “One second, Moses. I gotta get up real quick.”
I check my wristwatch. 8:30 a.m., but the secondhand is not moving anymore. Tapping the glass, I hope for it to start working again, but to no avail. The battery must have just died.
The house is silent. The soft snoring of my friends disappear as I make my way towards the bathroom. Once I switch the light on, I squint and try to adjust quickly. I stare at myself through the mirror, fearing to find something different about myself. My fear dissipates. It’s just plain old me. Eight-year-old me.
I wash my face and leave the bathroom to return to my sleeping bag. The golden retriever looks at me and tilts his head.
“Hey, is something wrong?” my friend sits up in his sleeping bag, rubbing his eyes, looking at me with surprise.
“Oh, hey. No, nothing’s wrong. I just had a really weird dream.”