Travel Portrait 15
Sandy Watiff Off-Season: Part 3
July 13, 2008 [listen]

I. The Landing

"Humph. Yeah."

"What'd ye be doing here!?!"

"Me be trespassing here, dear sir."

The man's demeanor did not like-minded the well-slept pleasantry of my dusk face. Boiling red was his twlighting glower as tinted by my here and now, or by his lobstering?

"Oh, trespassing here is well established," agreed the lobsterman. "And I repeat, what'd ye be doing here," he scowled waving some kind of sickle-looking equipment before my face.

"Here be I," handing him my papers that consisted of the downloaded directions to the cottage, the rental documentation, and the tourist brochures.

The lobsterman read through the downloaded directions, then scanned the rental documentation, then skipped over the tourist information.

"From point of origin to the final destination, those directions are fairly accurate," I explained, "to the tenth of a mile." I continued, "But the landmark descriptions detailed in the rental documentation were more or less not useful because I was blinded by the darkness of the night..."

The lobsterman's lower lip tremored as his scowl softened. For he had become more preoccupied by his instinctual memory: that he could calibrate the distance of a gull gliding across the sea just by keen glance and his body's ability to know the knots of the wind. He was also a Meerman, I imagined, not a mere mortal such as this lubber. He was probably conceived on the sea, born at sea, breastfed the sea (as far as I could tell by the callus on his upper lip). He probably possessed an innate skill for navigation during the daytime, and probably a similar capacity as a specter sailor.

"...There was a light yonder at that house, but no road, so I decided to conk-out, dock here until the morn. You might have heard my son honking the horn guiding me back to this stealth vessel as I should not have ventured off on foot to investigate the area--me being the captain."

I pointed to the blanketed bundle behind me in the booster seat.

"My apologies if me disturbed your peace.... That's the thing about directions, they're only good if you know where you are going."

"These are piss-poor directions laddie," confirmed the lobsterman trying to suppress his chuckle as he attempted to intricately describe the cottage's location as being right over there.

"What you need to do is to go out here and..."

I tried to pay attention as he pointed to the cottage, which was just down the hill, but my mind wandered upon hearing the words "piss-poor." Embarrassed, I wondered if my "landmarking" reputation preceded me, and if so, my, how quickly word travels around here.

"... If you have crossed the bridge, then you have gone too far. Good luck to you," concluded the lobsterman as he returned to me my papers.

"Farewell," I bade, starting the car and driving away.

I, as me, crossed the bridge--gone too far, I know. At my wit's limits, I phoned the cottage's owner, who stated that I was to take the "first left after the bridge, the gravel path that passes for a road. Go slow."

I drove slowly, groggily across the bridge. Then I saw her, the birdie, the tour docent.

"This is the place," she cawed before taking flight.

The cottage, the bay, the trees--I did not realize until I parked the car and looked at my rental documentation that I had landed--finally.

My son was still asleep as still as the sounds surrounding the cottage.

The moon had since settled. I got out of the car to investigate the scenery.

I approached the cottage,

opened the porch screen door,

found the key that would grant me high-security access for the week.

Once inside the cottage,

I walked through all the rooms,

recalling the refund policy.

I phoned the owner,

and I described to her what I was seeing.

"This is a neat place, right?"

"Indeed this is the place," I flabbergasted.

"You'll meet the cottage's overseer later in the day," she instructed.

"I'll speed-dial you if there is any problem."

She and I spoke to each other never again.