The sky was crawling up over me sending the cool wind ahead of it to soothe my neck and lift my tendrils from my behind my ears and across my ticklish cheeks, into my eyelashes to catch and hang.
I hurried, appreciating how quickly my bare feet and calves propelled me up the seaweed spattered concrete. Fishermen began to take up their lines, call to one another. "Hey Bill- It's gettin' close; you goin' in?" Bright flashes came from behind and atmosphere-shivering grumblings. The daylight was lessening. Another bolt.
I hovered at the stairs, one foot in the sand, caught in an onslaught of wet surfers and their boards. They know better than I when it's time to vacate; I oughtn't go, I thought. And lingered still. Near the metal Keep Off the Dunes sign, beside the metal flagpole. And reluctantly turned up the stairs to join the wet-suit-clad in the gazebo.
Stepping precariously across a white, sex-waxed fiberglass five-footer I settled my bum on the floor boards feeling the cold water seep into my pants, the tracked-in, blown-in sand granules settle against my weight. Oohs and Aahs, Cool!, Did you see that one? came from all sides and soon I was leaning under the eave myself to watch the somehow still glassy surface rollick and roll, a trawler enter the inlet tipping sideways, a personal speed boat hammer for harbor as lightning struck down between the jetties. My arm shot out to catch roof drizzled rain in my palm.
Silent, I absorbed talk of wind in high pressure areas being drawn into low-pressure areas, stories of surfer-worthy waves created by Hurricane Cindy riding slowly up the coast in the late 90's, 200 miles off-shore. Did you know as soon- as very soon- as a storm subsides on the West coast, surfers head for the water before the wind dies and leaves the water despondent?
Daylight was growing again stronger and the rain fizzled to sporadic drops. We hadn't seen a bolt in several minutes. I stepped over the tail fin rudders of a red board and headed for the concrete again, pausing to splash the sand from my feet with a puddle. Walking westward on the side of the fence closer to the ocean I watched starkly white seabirds diving toward steel grey chop for surface visiting fishes.