Said the Sea

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform.
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
and rides upon the storm.
—William Cowper

Lightning flashed in the distance. He counted.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Thunder rumbled.

He couldn’t see the stars.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledged the rare summer storm coming closer, but he continued to sift the sand through his fingers, building small mountains and then destroying them to build again.

Whoosh, said the waves, creeping ever closer. He watched as they made their presence known, and waited for them to arrive.

When the first crawl of water reached his toes, he lay down, driving the back of his head into the sand, digging a hollow to anchor himself in even as his bare feet were pulled by the retreating waves.

Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled within three counts.

Three. The number of bullet holes in Starsky’s jacket.

The water rushed around him, sucking at his hands, soaking his jeans and shirt. He dug his fingers in deep, as if to hold onto the earth to keep from floating away.

Starsky might yet float away. The thought twisted inside him, hurting. If that happened, then Hutch wanted to float away, too.

How easy it would be to just let go and see what wonders the ocean held, living deep in her belly, beauty without pain.

If Starsky let go, would he find Starsky there? Would Starsky look for him?

Would he forgive him for floating away, too?

The next wave just barely reached his ears, tugging at his hair, splashing at his face. The sea tasted sharp on his tongue. Salty and organic. Real and alive.

Starsky was still alive.

Lightning fired brightly overhead, crashing with the thunder, blinding and deafening him.

He sat up, breathing hard, as if he’d been the one electrocuted back to life.

The salt on his face was no longer only of the sea.

He never thought he’d ever love someone like this. To be so willing to follow someone into the dark.

Starsky wouldn’t, couldn’t go that way. Not yet. Too young, too soon, too needed.

But if…

The clouds parted. Stars winked at him, promising forever.

A wave crashed into him, pushing him up the beach.

Go, the sea seemed to say. I’m not your destiny.

He rose, dripping, his hands tightening into fists. It had all lay coiled inside him since the day Starsky had been shot down–rage at the world, at himself for not being fast enough, at Starsky for not ducking, at the sea for pushing him away. The thunder was no match for his own roar. He kicked sand into the water, then threw fistfuls of it as far into the surf as he could, as if it would cause the water pain. He vented his anger and pain and guilt at his own weaknesses at the sea, but it only pushed at him more.

Go.

Spent, he stood at the surf’s edge, toes sinking in the wet sand. He thought of Starsky’s crooked smile, the one that said, “What am I gonna do with you?”

Go.

He thought of warm nights lying tangled together, the rhythm of Starsky’s breathing a lullaby.

Go.

He thought of his promises to make their life together real and acknowledged.

Lightning flashed, and in the light he saw Starsky, reaching out a hand.

The sea pushed.

The lightning showed him the path.

He nodded. And as Hutch turned his back on the insistent sea, he thought the thunder sounded like a belly laugh.

Go, fool. He’s waiting for you.

He picked up his shoes and left the storm behind.

*~*~*

“Hutch, does it ever seem to you like the ocean’s talking?” Starsky sifted sand through his fingers, building small mountains to destroy and rebuild.

Hutch raised himself up on his elbows. His gaze fell on Starsky’s frail hand, on his healing body bundled against the breeze, and finally met his eyes gazing back at him.

Then he turned his head, and looked past Starsky to the edge of the surf and up to the sky, clear blue and cloudless. He listened, but heard nothing.

“It talked to me once.”

“Yeah? What’d it say?”

“It told me the truth.” He smiled, and sat up to kiss him as the tide pulled the waves back into the sea.

~end
July 31, 2007