When packing sustenance for the little excursion, I usually lose out on food in favor of beer and wine. The cooler was incredibly heavy as I carted it about one half mile across the island to the site. The ground layout was roomy but visible. Setting up is easy enough. You already start to wonder about who in the groups around you may become intermingled at night; which was annoyingly amplified through the tent walls. I quickly stake my plot and it’s immediately time to hike.
A solo stepping is always the most perceptive way to do these things. My jug filled up with spirits and my sack contains a couple of utilitarian snacks and my plant products. I say goodbye to my temporarily granted earth and am off in search of the quiet time needed to assess the lines; the laws. I pray for snakes. Easily bored with the timid feral creatures, they become barely opaque to me.
I reach the ruins and take the obligatory first couple of memory shots. After looking for a relatively dangerous way to stomp over the rubble I enter with the fresh feeling of what I am told is treacherous; and even though I know better, I let that bit of trepidation creep into my mind. I light up a good bowl and get better established with the biosphere. A few large sips of the red and I’m slowly off. I continue to romanticize about the ruins for a bit. There seems to be little left in the way of soul. It’s empty of feeling but full of historic actions. I trek on and reach a slightly swampy, wetland area. Follow that trail for a bit until it opens up into the spur fields.
The dunes are just beyond the small clearings. The sand hills have previously been threaded and make for a quick up and down. Suddenly, the sky turns on my surroundings and becomes black with beauty. The wet drops start within minutes. Just beyond the dunes I find tight rows of some type of bush. They make for a perfectly convenient refuge.The time for another smoke and sip. I’m content and safe in position. The wine complements the rain. I force down a bit of crumbs and prepare to move on as the storm flies away. In no time, I’m on the beach. There are horses perfectly placed along the horizon. The quick drench has settled the sand. I skip a swim in favor of perpetual motion. It’s time to head back north.
I walk the beach for what seems like hours. Boredom and beauty can create a wonderfully unique state of meditation in one’s mind if you let it be. I pass the small waves and wild horses before returning to the entrance leading back to my little rented piece of ground. I attempt to throw together a necessary and quite satisfying fire. I grill the red meat from the ice box and throw some foil-wrapped potatoes and carrots into the coals. The sun will be setting soon. It’s time to let my mind wander into whatever territory is wishes to. The inhaling and gulping continue into the black, leading to an adequate pallet in the tent with rough and gloriously knotty unevenness. No sleep for me. It’s time to dream.