Shacked: Days 1 and 2
May 26, 2011
"Walk in the Dunes"
Monday (5/16)
On this cold wet morning, I bathe naked at the sink with heated water from the stove top. Tim would hate this. Face, hair, underarms and everything below the waist- in that order (please remember what the green dish towel is being used for and don’t mistakenly dry dishes with it during the week). I like being naked man within my plywood and planked walls and I begin to laugh, thinking that with each passing year I become more and more like my father.
After two failed attempts to get a fire started, I grab my windbreaker and go for a cold Cape walk. Violent waves pound the seashore as I watch a few hungry seagulls dive for fish and one lonely seal bob along the turbulent coastline. Looking out at all the drama in the sea, I wonder how the Life Saving Personnel- that inhabited these shacks over 100 years ago- performed their jobs. Back in the shack, I channel my father’s gift for making roaring fires and I’m able to ignite the charm of number three. With orange and red hues glowing through the glass window, the black iron box does its job well and heats the room quickly. For the rest of the rainy day, I surrender myself to Richard’s worldview and finish his wonderful book.
At 8:30pm, the rain comes down hard and darkness engulfs the exterior and interior of the shack. I decide to go to bed. I miss Tim.
Tuesday (5/17)
It is particularly cold with torrential downpours(that might be slightly exaggerated but when you’re living in a shack with no insulation, electricity or flushing toilet- isn’t everything already exaggerated?). The place holds up well and I have now mastered the pot belly stove. I scramble a few eggs and fry a couple thick slices of salami in the well seasoned cast iron pan. Tangerine flavored Emergen-C washes everything down and gets me set for my day. The kitchen is very well equipped- making me wish that I had been more adventurous in my shopping. Then again, more cooking means more cleaning. And the more water you use means more trips to the well. So perhaps I made all the right decisions for my first stay at Fowler.
The rain stops, so I walk into the interior of the dunes to explore. Following the road that leads to and from the shack, I see fresh coyote tracks and pause to weigh how much I might be willing to encounter one or more of these scrappy canines. What the hell, “I’m a badass in a polo shirt,” right Keseh? Guided by the tire tracks of permitted vehicles, things look both familiar and unfamiliar. I see three other shacks along the way. I prefer the word “shack” versus the sometimes interchangeable word, “cottage.” Possessing a great sense of direction, I know that despite my momentary bouts of self-doubt, I’m confident about where this road will lead. Under my windbreaker, sweater and t-shirt, the sweat begins to form and my legs feel tight and heaving trekking through the sand. I recognize the last dune in front of me from last summer and can now hear the sounds of the waves. Reaching the top, I look down at the same spot where Russ, Rick, Marcelo, Doni, Jr, Bill and myself had our clambake last year. The sea is angrier today than it was yesterday. I dig my sneakers into the sand and march against the blowing wind as the ocean spray from the crashing waves hits my face. By every measure, it’s magical.
Opening a bottle of Malbec(thank God that I wasn’t foolish enough to follow through on making this turn in solitude a wineless event), I pull down the shack’s two log books from the shelf on the wall and take them outside to read on the porch. It is very interesting to hear the voices of the previous tenants in these pages. After reading Michael Lyons’ entry- my email pal and initial portal to Fowler- I went inside to find David Matias’ book of poetry, Fifth Season. After reading the first two poems, “Concealed” and “Selfish,” tears roll down my face. It is a moving book of poetry and it reminds me of what the late ’80′s and mid-’90′s were like for a lot of people in the gay community and I remember my friend Patrick.
It’s time to begin my own writing.
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