The 13th Pier

This is the opening chapter of the 13th Pier.

The waves lapped against the sand in a soft and steady cadence, percolating between each grain and returning to the ocean in a continuous and cascading motion. The sea, in its infinite churn, washes up and down the North Carolina coastline with uniform consistency as the laughing gulls and plovers bob and weave to the ebb and flow of crashing waves, looking for that unfortunate krill washed up unintentionally. Sand dunes are held intact by beach grass, wild sunflowers, and twisted Krumholtz-like trees that buffer the beach from seasonal storms, and high-water surges and offer regular protection for a group of modest beach-dwelling residences. Modest is relative, of course, considering the courtside seating to the majesty of the Atlantic and the vibrancy of darker blue water set to lighter blue sky littered with endlessly unique clouds.

              This morning, as the sun breaks a shatter of yellow and amber hues, the waves are interrupted by loosely fitted boots and the motionless body of Samuel Lent, who at first glance might appear lifeless and in near proximity to the glass bottle of cheap whiskey, empty of course. This was not the first time that Sam bedded down amongst the shells and tangled seaweed and grass. If the rising sun with all the heat intensity is not enough to wake him, he can surely rely on the sand fleas to irritate him into a hungover action to clamber back to his two-bedroom cottage not but 300 meandering yards from where he lies. 

This is not a young man but a newspaper journalist and mariner, having spent the majority of his life near the seaside in some capacity. He is a sad man, experiencing a lack of sobriety not for fun or out of a mindless habit but as a cure for the pain that comes from a profound loss.  Drunk out of a sadness that has haunted him for more than three years now, he finds himself repeating this self-destructive ritual at semi-regular intervals.

As the birds flutter around him and the waves continue to inch closer with a rising tide, there exists a brutal irony of so much natural splendor juxtaposed to a broken heart that no longer knows who he is, let alone be able to appreciate the miraculous beach around him. 

Rubber tires cut through the sand as Sherif Jackson rolls up next to what has become a regular visit with Sam. Six foot, six inches, the Sheriff is a tower amongst men with dangling forearms and with a soft place in his heart for all the wayward souls that find themselves lost at the threshold of the ocean. He has had the same beach patrol for more than thirty years, and this morning, like many before it, starts off with a similar introduction. 

Pop. Crack. The shells break under the weight of the 1980s-lifted Ford Bronco as the Sheriff cuts the engine and rolls to a soft, sandy stop. Creaking metal and clicking of the American-made door handle snap into place as the Sherif exits his vehicle, cradling his thermos filled with black tea and one hand pulling up his pant trousers and adjusting his button-down before slowing sauntering into thoughtful action. Standing tall and blocking the sun from Sam’s rousing form, he begins, “I would say that we have to stop meeting like this, but I do fear I might be back here before the end of the week at the rate that you fancy that bottle, Sam.” Time seems to patiently stand still as Sam makes no indication of being roused. The wind gusts and kicks up a spray of sand in front of them as the Sheriff absorbs the morning calm and settles into assertion.  

              “Sam, Wake up,” the Sheriff insists, kicking his scuffed boots and putting on a new tone of seriousness. We had a tourist compliant this morning, they thought you might be dead and come on… you know what that does to local businesses, we need happy tourists like every other beach community.” As soon as he said those words, John Jackson hurriedly poured a steaming cup of tea and lofted it to his lips, allowing for the rising steam carried by the ocean breeze to dance across his greying beard and wide-brim hat. The hat was not a standard issue but more part of a home-grown personality that Sheriff John Jackson allowed himself to embody as he always thought of himself as more salt of the earth than tailoring to the needs of local developers and the interests of business. Local residents called him “Jack,” both shorthand for his surname and as alternate moniker for John. In some formal settings, the Sheriff would go by Jack Jackson which might seem clumsy and repetitive but somehow made sense, no one questioned it, and all fit with his wide-brim hat personality and an outdated 4x4 that gets the job done, “just fine.” The son of a long-standing fishing family, he had seen acre by acre of wild beech concede to the pressures of tourism and development. New beach houses are built up at a rapid rate as others decay in the background, and the economic vitality of small towns is defined by the success of a resort. Sheriff Jack was feeling his own internal contradiction and mild disdain for wielding a tourist complaint as a reason for his law enforcement wake-up call.   

With a dry mouth and pulsing headache, Sam slowly muttered, “Morning, John.” And slowly, Sam lifts his torso by bracing his elbows against the sand into a prone position followed by some guttural hacking and a raising of his head. “I know you have more important things to be dealing with then me, and so, I’m sorry to waste your time,” said Sam.

“I’m not in a rush. It’s a quiet mid-day week, really. I passed an angler fishing the surf a half mile up beach and it looks like there is a couple walking their dog, off leash mind you, headed this way… and yup looks like the light rack on the Bronco is a dead giveaway and… they are turning around the other direction. So, no rush, pull it together and let’s get you back to the house,” said Sherif Jack. 

Sam turned his torso and sat up with his faded Hawaiian-inspired shirt disheveled, and his dungarees were wet, soiled, and sandy. “She appeared to me in my dreams again last night,” Sam said in a shaky voice. “Sarah, that is,” Sam continued with reservation, revealing “the how” of his inner torment. “It was right before Halloween, and we were getting Emily’s costume ready. She wouldn’t let up about how she should have bought a specific fabric when she was last in Wilmington, I’m not sure why it was so important to her. It doesn’t really matter what we talk about; it’s the time that I get to spend with her. It’s sad, I know,” said Sam. With sand in his hair, he began to cradle his forehead and look down at his knees in a slow descent into more sadness.      

The Sheriff had been anticipating this empathy moment, “for what it’s worth, I know you’re going through hell, it’s been over three years now that Sarah was lost to us and we all feel it. Your dream must have been that year when the two of them dressed up as jelly fish singing that Bruno Mars duet? Down at Skip’s? They had everyone laughing in stiches. I wish there was more that we could do to help.”