A nail in the dragon's flesh

Crane Beach, MA (Jun 4, 2005)

Last Saturday I went back to Crane beach. I know, there are many other beaches along the North Shore, but somehow there is a secret siren, over there, that is calling my name and makes me come back. Searching for a photo forgotten in our last encounter, looking for some rays of light that missed my camera and deserve another chance. So be it, another escapade at Crane beach, arriving there at a time of the fishermen, when the sunbathing bostonians are leaving after being rosted (they wish) under the pale New England sun.

The idea is the same as usual. I leave the car at Castle Hill, where the parking lot stays open even after the sunset, and then reach the section of the beach frequented by the Ipswich people by crossing the gardens of the Castle Hill villa. As I reach the villa on top of the hill I am stopped by a guy working for the reservation. He says that I cannot reach the beach from there, because there is a wedding, and they “get funny” when there is a wedding and find intruders wandering on the property. Given that I am a member of the reservation I find “funny” that I am considered an intruder, especially since nobody stopped me at the entrance, or when I started to climb the hill. Still the guy didn’t let me go, because if he did, “he would have lost his job” (he says, quite dramatically). I got quite pissed, as I had to trace back my steps to the car, and then walk all the way to the main entrance of the beach (I still left the car there because I wanted to stay over after sunset). I am still a bit pissed as I am writing it one week later. If the reservation wants to raise money allowing fancy weddings of rich fancy bostonians on their property, fine for me, but they can at least post a sign at the entrance, to avoid “commoners” like me to go up all the way to be sent back by fancy people feeling “funny”.

Anyway, I did reach the beach. It was very low tide, and the bones of my old friend were completely dry, abandoned by the corrosive company of the Ocean, temporarily defeated by a wicked astral conjunction of the Moon and the Sun. At low tide, is when the Ocean reveals its secrets. Treasures emerge from the sand traps, three steps from the last tree, where the corsairs of the Cape have buried them before being sank by his majesty’s fleet. The bones were there, waiting. I saw the nail, corroded by water and moss. Red stained bones, or maybe wood, mute testimony of one untold crucifixion that is now revealed. Rest in peace, my friend, the cold embrace of the Ocean will soon be back.