<p
Sunshine brings me to the water’s edge. Kite surfers glide happily in the winds that blow so fiercely I can hear Ginsberg’s high-pitched howl through my earrings. My hair flies like Medusa’s snakes on my head. A driftwood structure offers some relief. Remnants of a camper’s fire warn of what else may lie within. I press on, gold grains of sand forming a magic carpet, leading me to the mouth of the Mad River. Blue water shimmers. I see an empty crab shell, washed ashore, akimbo in the sand. Seabirds are diving for food as I turn, trying to imagine how Sir Ernest Shackleton, in the year 1914, took one step toward the South Pole. Some things are, quite simply, beyond my comprehension.
Lori Cole
This article appears in Summer of Fun 2025.