“Cliff, I was nervous, Buddy. I know they say you can tell a dolphin from a shark because dolphins’ dorsal fins are more rounded than sharks’, but you still get this uneasy feeling when you’re out there, totally exposed. The finlookedrounded, but I wasn’t wearing my contacts and had no plan B if it turned out to be a shark. Hell, I didn’t even have a plan A,” J.P. recounted the previous day’s kayak encounter.
By the time he finished his dissertation about the anatomy of marine life, Cliff was back in the kitchen, prostrate and whimpering next to his empty water bowl.
“Shit! How long has that been empty? Did I forget to fill it yesterday or have you been extra thirsty?” J.P. rushed to fill the bowl while the dog gazed at it like he had just stumbled upon a cactus after a long hike across the desert.
He waited while Cliff aggressively and sloppily lapped up the water and then refilled the bowl before removing the tray of bacon from the oven and turning off the burner under the eggs. At home he would eat straight from the pan, but today decided to pull out one of the fancy melamine plates from the cabinet where Mr. Cunningham neatly stored his collection of outdoor serving dishes and place settings. J.P. thought the plates looked like slabs of tree bark that could be found among the pine needles and fallen palms that lined the walkway to the beach but assumed the earthy accent pieces came with a hefty price tag.
He sat at the sectional sofa next to the hot tub on the second-floor balcony and put down his coffee mug and plate on the table that doubled as a fire pit. He was impressed with the feast he had prepared without disrupting the morning of the crew on duty at Fire Station Two. The eggs were light and fluffy, the bacon had just enough crunch, and the mixed berry fruit salad looked like it should be on the cover ofEating Wellmagazine. He even took the time to boil water and grind coffee beans so he could use Mr. Cunningham’s French press.
Sunday mornings were usually quiet on Sea Pines. Most locals went to church services off the plantation and visitors were still settling into their vacation properties, making trips to the Piggly Wiggly or waiting for weekly bicycle rentals to be delivered. But the beach was already bustling with activity this morning. Power walkers and joggers paraded along the water’s edge on the hard, compact sand that was conducive to aerobic paces. Crews from the beach patrol scurried up and down the dunes erecting blue umbrellas and oak beach chairs with footrests for vacationers who opted to pay for the convenience of not having to set up and break down their own beach gear.
In the distance, workers at the Beach Club arranged symmetrical rows of white, fold-up resin chairs with salmon-colored sashes and constructed a white resin trellis that was wrapped in salmon-colored flowers. J.P. never understood the fuss around weddings, especially after hearing horror stories from his buddies whose fiancés mysteriously transformed from bragged about girlfriends of the year to unrecognizable bridezillas during the engagement period. But he silently stood in solidarity with the ladies who convinced their poor schmucks to tie the knot on the beach.
He sipped his coffee and stared out at the ocean and then down to his plate. He glanced back and forth a few times, reluctantly taking small bites and feeling guilty he was the only one enjoying the view and the breakfast. J.P. had a brief notion that perhaps he was confusing guilt with loneliness but quicky popped that thought bubble. He wasn’t alone, he was single. He was a single guy who was with people all day, every day. Sometimes he wished people would give him space and leave him alone. He concluded that most men—single or attached—would pay money for this quiet time on a Sunday morning.
“Here, Cliff. Want to share my bacon?” J.P. dropped a paper towel with crumbled bacons bits on it to the floor as the dog charged out of the house. “Enjoy it. After I clean up here, we’re both going for a run.”
Thirty
Kenny changed out of the cotton pants and tank she slept in into another set of cotton pants and tank that some post-COVID retail marketing genius dubbed loungewear versus sleepwear, thereby making it appropriate to be seen in public in such attire, and poured a cup of coffee from the percolator. She slid on her flip-flops and decided to take a walk around the grounds of Pelican Pointe. She was struck by the quiet and stillness of the complex. The water aerobics women didn’t occupy the pool, the pickleball courts were free of picklers, and there were no children teetering on the edge of the koi fish and carp ponds that Kenny was now all too aware may or may not be infested with alligators. If she hadn’t done a clean sweep of the property, she would have thought she missed the memo for an enticing welcome brunch that many resorts host as a thank you to guests, all while really trying to hook them into a tour and four-hour spiel about the latest timeshare opportunities.
Kenny rolled up her pant legs and walked down two steps in the pool. Part of her wished she was wearing a bathing suit so she could completely submerge and spring into laps or lazily float, while the other part of her was completely content where she was. She sat down on the pool’s edge, extended her legs straight in front of her so they were resting on the water’s surface, and laid back on her forearms, gazing up at the sun. It was against her Conditions List, but she longed for a Post-it and pen. She had a whole day ahead of her with no plans or obligations; a clean slate, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. She trained her brain to lean on Post-its to prioritize her life, to keep her on point and in focus, weigh pros and cons of any situation. Her Post-its had Post-its. The square, sticky pads made Kenny’s life productive and manageable. But her will was stronger than her reliance on any piece of tangible paper list and she decided to mentally go down the list of possible activities she had saved for such a day.
Mental Post-it/Possible Activities Sunday, September 17
Bike ride to the Stoney-Baynard Ruins (Note: the tabby remnants of the Plantation built by Revolutionary War hero Jack Stoney are haunted. You hate horror films and despise Halloween.)
Visit the Sea Pines Shell Ring in the Forest Preserve (Note: the small shell ring built 4,800 years ago by Indian Moundbuilders, around the time of the Great Pyramids of Egypt, is located inside the Forest Preserve. Forests are filled with wildlife, you will be chased and eaten alive by an alligator.)
Take a day trip to Savannah on The Spirit of Harbour Town(Note: The ship departs at 9:00 a.m. and it’s already 10:30 a.m.)
Go on a dolphin sightseeing tour(Note: Had that experience during kayak “research” trip.)
Watch the sunset from the top of the Harbour Town Lighthouse(Note: the sun sets at 7:34 p.m. You just ate breakfast.)
Brainstorm plot lines and characters for the next “book club bestseller” (Note: What does book club bestseller mean? Who makes up these genres, anyway?)
Kenny felt the rays of sun beaming stronger on her skin and knew that if she didn’t put on a hat or sunscreen, her face would be sufficiently burned within the hour. She took the last sip of coffee and one by one struck a mental line through everything she jotted down on her cerebral Post-it. The only bullet she didn’t have a justifiable reason for crossing out was the last one.
She biked to South Beach Marina, the New England style waterfront village at the southernmost tip of Sea Pines and set up shop at one of the outdoor plastic tables at the Salty Dog Café. When she was deep in the trenches writingArmchair Detective,she spent countless hours at the plastic tables with the iconic lime green umbrellas at Pier i on Riverside Boulevard, overlooking the Hudson River on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The causal vibe, the views of the water, and inspiration that could be drawn from people-watching were much the same. She ordered a lemonade, and the server brought her a basket of popcorn from the vintage popcorn cart on the side of the octagonal bar. She closed her eyes for a moment and briefly felt like she was back in New York, pen in hand and ready to write. Only this time, she had no idea where to start.
Kenny scribbledLuck is when preparation meets opportunityon the top of her college-ruled, spiral bound notebook.
She wasn’t sure where she first heard the quote, but it was something that stuck with her over the years. It could have been something a sage, edgy Jesuit at Fordham prophesized in passing or it could have been advice of a freelance cameraman from Timbuktu who WBS hired to film an interview in a small, one stop-sign town. Regardless, she thought of the quote often. She detested the idea of applying these wise words to her current literary standoff with Muffin Evans, but deep down knew that half of the equation to her becoming a published author was already completed. Muffin had given her the opportunity. It was up to Kenny to rely on her decade of writing experience to round out the rest of the equation.
She sat for nearly an hour with a serious case of writer’s block. She watched two small, shark-fishing charter boats leave port and saw the sixty-three-foot Salty Dog catamaran afternoon happy hour cruise sail in. She observed the line at the ice cream shop start to wrap around the deck and watched as parents clenched their breaths and children’s hands while climbing the metal spiral staircase next to Land’s End Tavern to reach the Salty Dog T-Shirt Factory. She heard the repeated, clipped “Hello” and “Goodbye” of the throaty-voiced, rainbow colored macaw and Amazon parrots that happily resided in the oak trees of the marina’s open aviary and took pleasure in surprising the unsuspecting passerby with their presence. She got occasional wafts of fish and saltwater that blew in from the marina, but it was mostly masked by the smell of the platters of fried hushpuppies and gator bites that were delivered to midafternoon snackers at neighboring tables.
She knew she should be able to draw inspiration from any of these people or scenes, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on any of it. She hadTheCanterbury Talesof the Deep South at her fingertips and there had to be more than one protagonist and antagonist among them. All the people who descended upon the South Beach Marina at the same time on a sunny, Sunday afternoon had stories, backgrounds, and secrets.
Kenny had questions, and possibly assumptions, about most of them but quickly realized that the storytelling of a news producer was starkly different than that of a fiction writer.
“Can I refill your basket of popcorn, Miss?” a young, freckle-faced girl with auburn hair and large, round circular glasses asked Kenny with a smile.
“Sure, that’d be great. And can you please bring me a menu?”
Kenny was satisfied with the popcorn but thought that she should order something of more substance if she was going to be occupying the server’s table. She also wanted to ward off the table stalkers who lingered around the seating area, ready to pounce as soon as they saw take-out containers, or a check delivered to a party who was nearing the end of a meal. Kenny knew the type well as she was a seasoned table stalker who practiced her craft often during warm weather months at the Central Park Boathouse and outdoor bar at Tavern on the Green. Before she lifted her gaze to assess how many people had already observed her sitting alone at an empty table and were prepared for a standoff with other hungry diners for the coveted spot out of the way of foot traffic and unobstructed views of the water, the young girl was back with the menu and basket of popcorn,
“Here ya go, ma’am. It’s a picture-perfect day out here, isn’t it?” The girl looked admiringly toward the boats on the water.
