CHAPTER SIX
The following morning, I was awoken by the Sun’s light piercing my eyelids. One of my most vivid memories was of what I woke up to that morning. It was by far the most beautiful sight I ever had. About 20 degrees above the horizon was the Sun. Below it was the blue, shining, glistening, beckoning sea. It was a little bit warmer than the night before, but so bearable that it was negligible. Furthermore, a constant gale kept a pleasurable and consistent feeling. A 40-story apartment was right on the coast. Although the building was eight miles away, I was still capable of discerning a few blimps circling it. Turning left, I saw the shopping center near the city’s limits, the river which Port Salmon lies on which comes from the northern suburbs. Miles of coastline forest were visible from my balcony, and it gave a dynamic look to my viewpoint. On my right was the bustling morning city with buildings rocketing to the sky in a cluster no bigger than half a square mile. The tallest skyscraper bore a shadow that ended a half mile to the west of it. The ginormous tower was a rectangular prism with vibrant white steel lining the four corners of the building. On top of the 75th story, four antennae surrounded a 55 foot spire that ended with a sphere that shone red at night. Port Salmon’s fortress came complete with smaller buildings, some of which had a more appealing look than the tallest one. One looked as if it had an inclined plane wrapped around it. In Port Salmon, an architectural paradigm was to never have two neighborhoods have the same style. In each area of the city, there were varying shapes and materials used to create the structures. Behind my apartment building was the Concrete District, where a majority of the buildings were concrete. Even the mall there was steel with concrete columns and a concrete base with murals painted on the ground. I was stuck in a trance by just staring at the scenery. Each of the pioneering acumen involved in the uprising of the city were intelligent indeed. I was about to fall back asleep when I noticed that the sun was pretty high up. So, I decided to depart from the breathtaking view just in case if it was 10:00 AM.
Seagulls vocalized loudly to the point where none of the morning traffic could be heard. I went back in from the balcony then locked up my apartment to go downstairs. When I got to the first floor, where a grandfather clock resided, I checked the time. It read 9:50, meaning I woke up just in time. Within the matter of minutes, a pickup truck stopped in front of the apartment and it was the landlord.
“Beautiful morning,” I said overjoyed.
“Yep, it sure would’ve been a waste of time to spend a…an explicitly nice day in the boring neighborhood, especially since today is Sunday.”
“Is it crowded? I ask because it looks like there’s commotion by the ocean.”
“Oh, yes. On this kind of day, we’re talking around,” he said as he tried to create an accurate number in his head, “100,000 along the 30 mile stretch of coast over here. It’ll be extremely crowded.”
As we rode through Devlin, a northern suburb, I had the urge to initiate a conversation. Without the radio on, it was pretty tranquil, even with the windows down.
“I know psychologists have explained that everyone gets these thoughts where they think there’s a…world around them that centers on them,” I tried to ease in.
“Yeah,” he half-heartedly acknowledged, “what about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said as my thought process was inconsistent, “it seems like there is a group of people that focus their lives on me. If that’s true, I don’t why. There’s this guy that lives in my old town. He never really did his job, he barely talked to anyone, but he somehow made me some kind of target.”
“What do you mean?”
We entered Bluebark, another suburb, and went onto the ocean expressway. I tried to gather my thoughts and organize them for a concise explanation. After a minute, we were back in Port Salmon, at the very northeast corner of it. As I was just about ready to give my position, we entered Monice, an eastern suburb.
“This guy is, or was, a police officer,” I explained, “and he always shunned me. I didn’t really care until he got cruel with what he did. Out of all the people in our town, he chose to hit me in the head with a nightstick. He chose to steal money from me. He chose to blame me for the theft. He chose to stuff a cloth in my mouth. Most importantly, he chose to wear sunglasses in front of me. I’m surprised I even know what his eye color is. Anyway, was it random? Did he think no one would have sympathy for me, and so, get away with it? I don’t have the slightest clue.”
“Wait, this dude smacked you with a stick?” he asked while alternating his eye focus between me and the road.
“Yeah, he did,” I confirmed proudly, “I was out for a while, actually.”
The landlord spoke once again, “Well, what I always tell people that have been screwed over is this: People sometimes just do not have a reason. All they have…is…a…motive without cause. That’s all it is, a motive without cause. Now, maybe you were a complete jerk in your old town, I have no clue. It’s just that sometimes people will give reasons that seem…invalid from every point of view. They just want to form a reason so they justify their doings within their conscience. Because…I’ll tell you something…people don’t care if you don’t comprehend their reasons. Some people don’t even care to offer themselves a reason. But just because men give a reason, doesn’t mean they’re actually going to wait for you to understand their point of view. Since they understand it in their mind, it is their ultimate reference point for their actions beyond creating the reason. Let’s say you tickled someone. Okay. According to this person, you punched and didn’t tickle. The person will tell you that you punched when you actually tickled. The person punches you for revenge, like a punch that anyone would consider a punch, but uses the justification that you punched instead of tickled. So, it’s something similar to that.”
“Meh,” I shrugged, “I kind of understand.”
“Alright,” he compromised, “what I want you to take from me is that some people see reasoning as an extra attribute of an action. I personally see it as mandatory, not for the person to be forced to give a reason, don’t get wrong. But…people shouldn’t fool themselves. Know why you do things. That’s what my grandpa said to me.”
After that, it got quiet again with the occasional interruption of a beeping horn from another car.
“You ever went to the beach before?” the landlord asked me.
“Yeah, when I was a kid,” I told him, “but I don’t know where we went.”
Just as I finished saying that, we passed a ginormous sign that read “Welcome to Oceanside City: Home of Country’s Best Beach”. Oceanside City was the largest suburb of Port Salmon in terms of population. It was home to 110,000 people in an area of 30 square miles. In a lot of ways, Oceanside City was more popular than Port Salmon itself. One of the main tourist attractions of Port Salmon was the picturesque beach. Port Salmon itself actually never touches an ocean, but is always mistaken for doing so. So what ends up happening is that Oceanside City usually isn’t credited for its gorgeous beaches. Visitors unknowingly like Oceanside City better than Port Salmon, but Oceanside City doesn’t care because a majority of the highest rated hotels lie within it. Also, the area’s richest people live in Oceanside City and the city has always been content with that.
Despite the crowded vicinity, we managed to snatch a parking space near the shore. For about a mile, we journeyed along a narrow strip of beach that led to a peninsula. About 100 yards before the very end of the peninsula, we found a fairly quaint spot to establish our place on the beach. The landlord put on his shades and laid himself flat on the sand with sun right above his body.
“Hey, I’ll be back, okay,” I alerted the landlord.
“I’ll be sleeping.”
I got up and inhaled the salty air, then looked at my surroundings. People were splashing around in the water and sunbathing while kids were erecting sand castles complete with moats and drawbridges. Countless lifeguards were posted along the beach, waiting for a sign of distress. The peninsula was probably 400
feet wide and was hogged by a large number of people. Deciding to look for Arnold even though I knew it was drastically improbable, I began to walk through the masses of people. I asked people that looked to be in their 30s if they went to Lumpert or not. Over the course of an hour, I found three people that went to Lumpert but were a little bit older than me or a little bit younger than me. After a few miles of walking, I reached the southern end of the beach.
I thought that the odds were slim to begin with, but after I walked the distance I did, I kind of had an idea of how slim the chances were that I’d see him. Most of the people convening were visitors anyway. Even finding someone that went to my school at the same time as me was very unlikely.
While I was returning to the landlord, I ran into a couple of teenagers.
“Hey,” one of them shouted over the cacophony of the crowd.
“Me?”
“Yeah, do you want to surf with us?”
“I guess,” I said in an effort to keep from looking like a party pooper.
One of the kids jogged for a yellow umbrella that had water bottles and sports goods in disarray underneath its shadow. After digging around in the sand, he pulled out a spare surfboard and approached me with it. Not only was the umbrella solid yellow, but so was the surfboard the kid gave to me. I turned for the ocean when I saw a news crew. I was surprised at the fact that anyone would watch television instead of spending time outside. Even the few people that made the mistake to watch TV instead of coming to the beach became aware of the beach’s rising popularity. Inching closer and closer, I faintly heard the news reporter speaking.
“-can’t imagine anyone being inside watching this. There are a number of things to do here at the beach,” the reporter said as he stepped aside to allow the camera to capture the scene behind him. “Not only can you swim, play sports, and sunbathe, but there is a scuba diving club that is welcoming all visitors today. Diving 3 miles offshore has been the trend lately, and you can discover more about that on our website. The main thing here in Oceanside City is surfing, and it has been the main objective of most newcomers to the beach as well as people who are well acquainted with the area. Here, we can see that there are many people enjoying the waves. Expect waves to be roughly 15 feet as you head away from the shore.”
One of the teenagers came to the shore to get the water out his ears.
“Excuse me, sir,” the reporter said while the news crew gathered around the teenager, “What do you have to say about the beach today? How’s the weather, the water, the overall attitude of people?”
“Like, everyone is enjoying themselves and having a good time without any regrets for their decision. Even the people that are sunburnt are happy,” the teenager exclaimed, “I know I am. It’s really fun out here. The waves are really rigid and if you wipeout, it’s like the water comes out to slap you personally.”
Both the teenager and the reporter snickered for a couple seconds before the reporter became the center of attention for the camera again.
“There you have it viewers,” the reporter endorsed, “the beach will be a wonderful experience for the whole family, including visitors from far down south. Remember to wear sunscreen and greet everyone you meet to make the experience that more enjoyable. This is Jeremy Webster, Port Salmon Channel 3 News; back to the three of you.”
I grabbed the surfboard and went straight for the water. Even the ocean was densely populated with people. There were nets, beach balls, and surfers all sharing the water. I rested on my stomach while I continued to paddle away from the shore. I followed the teenagers until we were moderately far away from the shore even though there were numerous boats around us and the shore was visible to us as well as the very obvious Port Salmon skyline 15 miles northwest of us. I started to lose control as the water’s height in relation to me kept fluctuating. The waves were constant and I grabbed my surfboard tightly, hoping the waves would cease. In the distance, I saw one of the teenagers riding a huge wave that was heading toward me. I braced myself for a collision with the kid, so I kept my head down. Soon, I felt myself shoot up as if I was on the wave. When I looked up, that was the case. I was about to get swallowed by the wave since I was perpendicular to it. The roar of the wave made the teenagers’ calls inaudible to my ears. I figured he was telling me to get ready, so I clung tight as I was whirled back and forth and was hit multiple times by water even though it felt similar to landing headfirst on concrete from a foot or two in the air. My memory beyond that was vague, except for the fact that I got up on both of my feet and I rode the waves back to shore as quickly as I could. Then, I fell onto the sand as my head was throbbing from the smacks and the water that collected in my ears. After a few minutes transpired, one of the teenagers came ashore and came toward me.
“Look,” he advised me, “you’re not really that interested in surfing, are you?”
“No.”
“Alright, we’ll do something. Hey, Andy.”
“Yeah,” one of the other teenagers responded as he came on the beach.
“Call your dad and ask him if he wants to play some volleyball with us.”
Excitement aroused the teenagers. Underneath the yellow umbrella, there was a net bundled up among the other items. After it was untangled, it was suspended between two poles that were already standing.
“Hey, you like volleyball?” Andy asked me.
“I guess,” I responded.
“Good, you’re playing.”
I didn’t play volleyball too much, and I only remembered the rules because there was a girl in high school on the volleyball team that all of the guys would stare at. She taught a lesson for the guys after one of the guys asked her to do so. Everyone just wanted to watch her, but the rules somehow sunk in pretty well. Therefore, I shrugged at the teenagers since I figured it’d be better to be active than not. Looking inland from the peninsula, I saw a dark figure running along the shoreline. I was confined to a very small area since the beach was crowded. Over the net, I began to see a distinct face on the figure running. The direction in which the person was going was now toward us. Closer and closer the person got until I saw an adult that seemed to be almost 40.
“What were you doing?” one of the teenagers yelled in the figure’s direction.
“Oh, I was fishing on Gordon’s yacht,” the person said as he finally stopped running just across the net from me, “but you know how I can’t back out of a game.”
“That’s nice,” said Andy enthusiastically, “let’s go.”
We got a couple of more people and situated ourselves into two teams of nine so we wouldn’t exert too much energy with only six people, the usual configuration.
“Hey we don’t have enough people,” the older man complained.
“Yeah we do, dad,” Andy told him, “we offered this guy here to play with us. Yeah, we were surfing and then he wiped out big time. Then out of nowhere, he had, like, these primal skills and he surfed to shore quicker than I’ve ever seen. Now, we’re playing volleyball.”
At this, he ran underneath the net and came to me.
“How’s it going man,” the older man greeted, “how did you run into my son and his friend?”
“I was just walking…errantly…and then they came from the ocean and offered me to surf with them,” I responded.
“Hmm,” he thought my sentence, “are you from around here?”
“Well, I just moved here. It’s funny you mentioned it,” once again, my logic was that odds of one million to one technically wasn’t equivalent to impossible.
“I just moved to here from Plainview,” I continued. “I spent my childhood on the south side.”
“Really, me too!” he gave me the impression he was going to explain his origins. “I did too. What’s…your name?”
“Travis. Travis Hilton.”
His eyes widened, and it was at that moment I knew without a doubt that I finally found someone that knew me back in my greatest years. All that was being anticipated at t
hat point was the exact identity of who I had found on that lucky and ultimately pivotal day. After a silence that seemed to engulf the whole beach finally ceased, the person held out his hand for me to shake it.
“Julio Hernandez.”
It was so disturbing to due to the extraordinarily low odds. It was Hernandez 42.
Making Life Worth While Page 8