Love the run (Sept. 2) to the phallic spear, west Fire Island, a herd of deer graze on the lawn oval, from my starting place from Dunewood, probably three miles, am thinking that I can run much farther, amazed at the lack of Irene damage, some salt water, diseased-looking trees, toppled over, some dead, undergrowth, except it seems for a tiny oasis, mosquitoes at night but not now in the breeze, nip in the air, which also helps.
Elsewhere, the breeding grounds for the Minnesota state bird expand under near-compromised homes on stilts. Remember nowhere can a basement flood here. The depth of the land itself no great shakes, literally a spit of sand in the ocean, laugh riot of a reality TV show, Survivor: Fire Island. Look for it.
Back from the run to the phallic spear, the needle, so pancake flat that you literally feel you could run all day. Rest, sit back, ice water down in a flash. Get up, get another one, and it too vanishes. Mind empties, feel the calm that comes from what you feel when through the day until now, minutes before sundown, the only food you eat is the fruit of the land and sea, cold water and juices and fried food (Yes! potatoes and clams and soft shell crab).
Or wine in oversized plastic glasses, garish colors, yellows and oranges and purples, at the sunset show at Fair Harbor, the poetic evocations, the sky for minutes every summer evening drawing young and old to the pier, standing room only: “Hey, Norm, give us a pour o’er here, wouldja, I’m down a quart.” “Sheesh, Millie, can’t ya just stifle it for once; I mean just looka that sky .¤.¤.” “Wanna buy a brownie?” “Wha .¤.¤., you didn’t bring the crumbs for the swans. I mighta known.”
At Unfriendly’s, there’s the gold standard egg and cheese and its x, y variations, even in midsummer outta the best choco-dip ice cream bars, but Labor Day fuhgeddaboudit.
A week after Tropical Storm Irene (Don’t call me Hurricane, fella), the winds on the ocean side are stiff if not killer, red flags, riptide surf so only teens with negative body fat are game to go in, and ever for them only within the lifeguard station boundaries, ranging wide of the whipping red flags and a sharp blast from the referee’s whistle cuts the wind like a chef knife, on Saturday (Sept. 3), I’m talking about, bringing the umbrella but not putting it up because of the obvious reason, the gusting wind, and not too far up the beach either because of the wash & dry layer, showing the advance of high tide, and there’s OC dog energy, old man of the sea Monster Dog http://amzn.to/d0aPaC with rusty lab mix and black shep-collie, throwing dog-catcher frisbee with the wind, thinking, I dunno, US Open for dogs, no thought in the world for the bathers trying to grab the last minutes of quiet, only a few hours of summer left, and yeah, he flings his frisbee toward two girls who’ve just plunked themselves down in a high tide zone, which is bad enough, but here come the doegs .¤.¤. flung-frisbee at their feet, sand bursts, showers upon them as the dueling mutts charge into the dirt, hit the beach, May Day, half-strawboater, half-sombrero, Monster Dog, tail between his legs, is second behind the beasts, breathless, apologies, “So sorry, so sorry,” digging the frisbee out of the sand, the half-awake sunbathers, young too, and perhaps with body issues, shy, certain, or at least considering that this unwelcome incident has something to do with the extra twenty around the middle, thinking lying prone will minimize likelihood of being noticed, not this afternoon though, sure that they are attracting negative attention, finger-pointing the fat girls on the beach, an afternoon ruined, all because of the Monster Dog, nothing but canine consciousness, remarkable his immaculate unawareness of humans, which are not in abundance, literally just random pods, think early spring plantings in a managed garden, ten, twenty or thirty times space per pod, and yet and yet, Monster Dog’s next fling of the frisbee takes his silly whirling hat on a course that ends pretty much dead center on the pot belly of the old bald fat guy on the beach, resting if not sleeping, and sure enough in bound the hounds, sand-pounding cloud that engulfs him, even shakes the old boy to his fee just as MD arrives, doing his mock-concern bit, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” and I’m wishing it were Papa Hemingway who’d’ve drawn a gun on the guy for sure and then you can bet MD would feel differently about playing his games with people about, but alas, nothing, not even a holler or a finger-wag, and he’s quick to get back down into his pod and try to return to whatever quiet he had been able to find of this the next to next last day of summer.
Here Uncle Rupe’s mini-cooler is inaugurated with jumbo shrimp salad ($1 per JS) from the Pioneer Market, Fair Harbor, stone-cold bagel and long swallow of Adirondack Seltzer.
Then, a sun umbrella, two weeks after TSI, yellow and red and blue, is doing cartwheels in the wind, up and over the fencing, into the dunes, and . . .
Running for Your Life: Thinking marathon
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