My thumb burned, striking the spark wheel over and over and over, attempting to keep a flame alive long enough to catch the paper and scavenged kindling we found along the beach. The ocean breeze, relentless, continued to whip, our ears protected by beanies and hoods.
Friends watched with slight concern, cupping their hands around the flame in solidarity as I kneeled at the teepeed logs. The sun slowly sank into the bank of clouds that settled just above the horizon, like a premature sunset, turning the sky pastel and hued pink when met by the sea mist. Greater forces and patterns at play, altering our perception of time, of the day’s end, even by a few moments.
“Jesus,” I said under my breath. Frustration brewed, or rather annoyance. I wasn’t all too pressed. What was the worst that could happen? Three of my best friends and I were spending an evening at a remote beach just across the Golden Gate Bridge. Some of us had camped here before, surprised each time how this spot hadn’t blown up yet, how it remained empty and barren. Only a mile or so trek from the parked car, just below a seacliff, grasslands and northern Californian coastal brush cascade into rocky sand with seaglass and driftwood, rocks and shells eroded and softened by time, like ceramics smooth to the touch. Nestled by tidepools and a gray, deep blue tide, the coastline felt expansive, great and divine.
Guarded by sweet isolation, no strangers coming or natural predators creeping in our peripheral, we moved wildly, our moonrise kingdom to play. A boulder housed the seashells we picked up along the shore. We tiptoed through the tidepools, anemones kissing us at the touch as crabs hunkering in crevices among the sea rock. We kicked up sand as we danced, “Islands in the Stream” looped on the speaker, Dolly’s voice muffled by the waves choppy from the wind. The worst case scenario: we could literally just go home.
A callus formed on my thumb, smooth and raised, an appendage with the faintest sensation, familiar yet numb. My knees sunk into the sand with my back arched.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” one friend cackled from a boulder a few yards away. She raised a glass jar to our view. It couldn’t have been there long – there was no rust on the lid – tightly sealing a variety of items. The group instantly scampered over, giggling, to examine our treasure.
Inside we found the following items: one (1) Crystal Light packet, one (1) lighter, one (1) condom, one (1) pack of Trident bubble gum, one (1) factory sealed package of five (5) pills [we presume: two (2) ibuprofens, two (2) capsules of molly, one (1) unidentified white pressed pill, and one (1) large round pink tablet with “DR” printed at each side], and – lo and behold – one (1) pack of matches. We screamed, heads rolling back in laughter.
As dusk settled in, new esprit fueled our final firemaking efforts. We were now unstoppable, and decided our most effective method would be to light all the matches at once, a bold single flame that would finally catch.
“Let’s gather as much kindling first, we have to get this right,” I said as I charted down the beach.
Gathering kindling is one of my favorite parts of building a fire. Scavenging through the surrounding area, eyes peeled to the earth, surrendering to my own resolve, what’s available in front of me, and how I put it to use. There's a version of myself, someone not too far removed, who might have been overwhelmed by this scenario, who would have found the potential consequences of no fire all the more present and most certainly forthcoming.
Worry and doubt, masking unrealized trauma and high-functioning depression, became a trustworthy friend through my life. Preparing for the worst was more comforting than waiting for reality to reveal itself uncensored, expecting it will all inevitably go to shit. Because that’s just the way it is. And a lot of times it does, but not necessarily.
I’m tending a new flame, conceptualizing a new way of being. The narratives inside my head and the reality I live in, I’m learning, is a choice. A decision I can make everyday, I fall right into the potential that it all works out as it should, or rather, as it simply does.
The matchbook ignited immediately, sizzling into a flame. We quickly, carefully placed dried seaweed, small sticks broken in two at the base. We watched the kindling burn and the tip of the flame flick the teepeed wood above. We all gave a sigh of ease and satisfaction.
The sky soon turned to night. The bank of fog covered the stars and the moon, leaving us in complete darkness. Our fire provided the only respite, lighting our faces in a warm glow. Turning our backs behind us, we were confronted by nothingness. Disoriented, returning our view to the fire to find a sense of place.
Seated in camp chairs and sprawled on blankets covered in sand, we passed a joint with the sound of waves behind from an ocean, an expanse beyond perception. The fire’s embers pulsed in red and orange, and we watched them in silence, mesmerized and stoned. Our voices were soft when we spoke, so as not to disturb the peace.
Juniper, my friend's dog who joined for the fun, remained on guard. Patrolling our surroundings, she continued trotting, nose twitching and ears peaked, ready at a moment’s notice for … something.
My hip sinking into my blanket and the sand and palm supporting my chin, my heartbeat slowed, coddled by something warm. Maybe, for once, there’s nothing out to get me.
