Footprints in the Sand

Footprints in the Sand

         Dan set two bags down by the sofa. The large bag contained all his necessities, several pairs of underwear, a couple of shirts, some shorts and an old pair of very comfortable jeans. He'd pick up some toiletries at the little store down the highway later tonight. Opening the second bag, the computer case, he removed his laptop and positioned it on the breakfast table. Curtains covered most of the back wall. Pulling the drawstring revealed a sliding glass door and a full length of windows from floor to ceiling along the entire expanse of the living room and small breakfast area. Outside the sliding door was a porch facing the ocean, offering a view from within the cottage which was nothing less than spectacular. The vast expanse of the beach was highlighted by the varying colors of blue and green, separating the beach from water and sky.

         Dan thought to himself, "This is going to be worth the money. It's worth the view alone, if nothng else."

         At the moment, his greatest desire was to collapse and rest in this little seaside cottage on the beach outside of the little City of Moss Beach. It had been a very long day; the flight from Fort Worth had left him weary. However, the trip down Hwy 1 was nothing less than magnificent. The short drive from San Francisco International Airport had acctually refreshed him somewhat, leaving him tired but in the mood for solitude and a glass of wine. The view of the Pacific Ocean, provided by the short trip, helped to calm his spirit and untie the knots in his back; the wine would finish the job.

         As most writers will attest, there are times when the words won't come. At these times the writer stands with his nose to a brick wall and all attempts to press forward results only in a bloodied nose. Some writers claim the ‘muse' has left them--hogwash! Dan contended there was no such thing as a ‘muse' on which to blame one's non-production. He believed it to be more like a forest fire where all the available fuel has been gobbled up by the greedy flames--totally exhausted and barren. Some times the words were simply gone. To get them back required a new source of words. To Dan this meant a new environment--new inspiration. As a result, he came to this seaside paradise to find new words.

          The Pacific Ocean was a new experience, and although it was not high on his list of ‘must see' things, it was nevertheless on the list. He looked forward to the opportunity of spending two idyllic weeks experinecing the impressive water body. As promised by the booking agent, a bottle of wine was left on the bar counter which separated the kitchen from the main room. Leaving the unpacking for a little later; he opened the bottle of wine and poured a glass. An overstuffed couch, incongruent with the simple decor of the room, faced the windows and the ocean vista. He collapsed onto the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and soaked in the sunset just beginning its performance on the stage outside his window. Smiling to himself, he confirmed the bulky couch's comfort outweighed any designer decoration rules which may have been violated.

         Three quarters of a bottle of wine, exhaustion, and the tranquility of his surroundings were all complicit in causing his slumber. Sometime later, Dan emerged from his sleep to find himself still sitting on the couch, still unpacked, and somewhat disoriented. For the slightest moment, fear siezed his heart as he registered the unfamiliar surroundings. It took a moment for his mind to update his senses as to where he was. However, he quickly relaxed. He reached to the end table and pulled the chain on a lamp. Instantly the room was bathed in the soft glow of a low-wattage lamp. Amused, he wondered if the owner assumed others would awake in the wee hours at this spot just as he did--perhaps he had done it himself and therefore considerately softening the effect with the low glow of the lamp.

         He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and returned his gaze to the window. Only now, he was staring at himself as his image reflected back in the glass. Disappointed he was denied the nocturnal view of the ocean, he was a bit perturbed he must remove himself from the comfort of the couch to regain his ocean view; Dan poured a new glass of wine, rose to his feet, walked to the door and slid it open. Instantly his senses were introduced to new parameters. The sea breeze embraced his face, bringing with it a slight chill. His eyes searched in wonder at the darkness, which veiled the beach and ocean in a dense fog. He knew the ocean was out there, though; because, he could hear it. Rhythmically the waves pushed onto the shore with a cascading sound akin to static on the radio. Each wave increased in volume only to die away and make way for a new crescendo. The sound, disconnected from the visual evidence of the waves, was even more mesmerizing than being able to see them. For a moment, he felt compelled to leave the safety of the porch and walk to the source of the sound, into the fog and down to the ocean. However, he satiated his desire by simply walking to the edge of the porch and grasping onto the moisture covered rail. For the longest time he stood there, drinking his wine, staring into the void, and listening to the pulsating action of the waves.

         Every room facing the ocean was treated with a wall of glass revealing its beauty, the bedroom included. The morning found Dan asleep on the bed, still clothed but unusually rested. He remembered standing on the porch but nothing after that. Apparently, he had collected his senses and found his way to the bedroom. It was early in the morning and he had much to do, which included shedding the layer of clothing and refreshing himself with a long shower. Wearing a t-shirt and loose baggy pants, he then unpacked his meager possessions and set about doing what he was here to do--write.

         The notepads lay spread across the breakfast table. Pens and pencils were scattered among them. Dan had a dozen ideas for stories scribbled on the pads; he brought them with him from Fort Worth. He was not happy with any of them. No, here and now, in this place, he wanted something new. It was out there; he knew it. Part of writing had always been this moment of inspiration. The writer was not always immersed in forming words and tapping out the story on the keyboard. There were times of lonely contemplation; moments where ideas and story lines turned over and over in one's mind. It was true that inspiration often occurred in the still of the night, in the midst of a shower, over coffee at breakfast, or even walking on the beach. The moment of inspiration was just as important as the wordsmithing of the text--even more so, inspiration was where you found the spirit of the story--it was in fact its very soul.

         It was still early morning; he breakfasted on a piece of buttered toast with a cup of strong black coffee. Dan pushed himself away from the table. The inspiration was not there--not at that moment. On impulse, he snatched up his coffee cup and headed out the sliding door onto the porch. Even though the sunrise was long past, the horizon was still impressive. The little cove where the cottage was located did not have a direct view of the beach. It was hidden by the rim of the small precipice, which ringed the cove and was located fifty yards from his back porch. Dan noticed a stair had been constructed into the face of the precipice, which he assumed led down to the beach. Quickly descending the steps from the porch, he made his way to the stairs. Sure enough, sixty feet below the rim of the precipice lay a white sandy beach. At the bottom, he removed his shoes and stepped into the sand of the beach. It was dry at this point but fifty feet towards the ocean, it was wet and firm under the continual soaking of the waves rolling in.

         The wonder of the little cove did not escape his appreciation. For eons, the waves worked to carve it out of the mainland and prepare the sandy beach for this moment. Sipping his coffee, he walked along the beach, passing alternately from wet sand to dry sand. Occasionally an aggressive wave stained his pants legs with the salty ocean brine and continually coaxed him back towards the the dry sand of the mainland. He did not search for inspiration; he did not look for words to fill the page; he simply walked along the beach, absorbing the majesty of the moment.

         Then he noticed a curious thing. His footprints were not the only prints in the sand. The additional set of footprints had been totally unnoticed; he didn't know for certain when they first appeared. But, the fact they were there was inescapable. Placing his foot next to one that was already there, he compared the footprints. The other was smaller than his. It did not sink as far into the sand. In comparison to his footprint, it appeared the owner weighted much less than he did; he guessed perhaps the weight was around one hundred-fifteen pounds. It was not a child's footprint. His guess was that it belonged to a woman.

         High tide was projected to be somewhere around 4:00 AM for this day; low tide was somewhere around 10:00 AM. A glance at his watch confirmed it was 9:30 AM. These footprints had to have been made this morning. He looked up and down the beach; it appeared he was alone. His mind began to pose questions about the owner of the footprints. Who was she? What was she doing here alone? Was she young? Was she beautiful? By the afternoon, the prints would be gone, washed away by the high tide. However, Dan knew the questions would remain an unsolved mystery to him, fueling his curiosity. He returned to the cottage, spending the afternoon jotting down thoughts and ideas; almost all of them involved a mysterious woman on a beach.

         The next few days were spent in a fervor of creativity. Dan sketched outlines and scribbled ideas, carefully filing each one away to be fleshed out when the story began to take shape. However, each morning held a walk along the beach as its starting point. At day's first light, he descended the stairs to the beach and walked to the water's edge. Everyday he found the same thing--a single set of footprints in the sand. He followed them to the point where they terminated at the rocks, jutting from the shore into the ocean. Upon examination of the area, there was no evidence anyone had scaled the rocks from the beach. It was sometime during this period of time that he assigned a name to the mysterious woman. He referred to her as Clarice. Perhaps it was a premonition which led to that name; perhaps it was totally by chance. He did not know; it just felt right.

         On the fourth day into his vacation, Dan took a trip into town. The morning had been productive; on that morning he finally began writing. He took a break from his thoughts in the early mid-afternoon. Standing at the bathroom sink, splashing water into his face to refresh himself, he took a good look at the face staring back at him in the mirror. Although decently groomed, he had not shaved in several days; he couldn't if he had wanted to because he never made it to the little store to pick up shaving items.

         He chuckled to himself, "You're looking a little scruffy, my boy. Guess it's time we mowed the face."

         The drive into town was a short one; it hugged the shoreline, which consistently drew glances from him to the beach. Dan's mind kept focusing on the footprints. The grandeur of the ocean and the vista was virtually lost, with the focus being on the solitary trail of footprints in the sand.

         He stopped by the spirits store and replenished his supply of wine and then he visited the local pharmacy. He placed the items on the counter; there was a package of disposable razors, a can of shaving cream, a small bottle of aftershave, a bottle of Scope, and roll-on deodorant. He couldn't help but notice the smile of the cute sales clerk as she checked him out at the register.

         Grinning, he asked, "You laughing at me?"

         Her grin widened as she replied, "You know, you really need these."

         "Yeah, I know. I kinda got busy and forgot to shave."

         She just smiled.

         Dan continued, "I really look a lot better all spruced up. Never really liked the hair on my face or head to get too long."

         Her grin bubbled into a gentle laugh, "Oh, I don't know. I like my men little scruffy."

         "Hmm...maybe I shouldn't buy all this stuff."

         She giggled again openly, "No, take my word for it, you need it. Besides, we want your money."

         "Oh, I see, capitalistic at heart are you?--you'll trade scruff for currency." Dan gathered up the small package with his goods inside.

         "Gotta make a living." She smiled and continued, "My name's Angela; what's yours?"

         "Dan; glad to meet you Angela."

         "You visiting in town?"

         "Sort of, I actually came here for the change; it helps me work."

         "And, just what kind of work do you do, Dan?"

         "I'm a writer. I've come here for inspiration." He smiled warmly at her.

         She returned his smile. "And, do you feel inspired in our little town?"

         "As a matter of fact I do."

         "Very good! And, what pray tell inspires you about Moss Beach?"

         He continued to smile, except the tone of his voice became a tad bit more serious. "It's your beach--I've been inspired by the beach." He hesitated and then continued, "Actually it's what I've found on your beach. You see, every morning when I take my walk, I find a set of footprints in the sand. They always lead in the same direction and disappear in the rocks."

         He noticed a slight change in her expression. The smile remained but there was a hint of understanding there. She should have been confused or nonplussed; however, she returned his look with a sense of understanding.

         "You know what I'm talking about don't you Angela?"

         She smiled again and replied, "Actually I don't have a clue. But, I'm not surprised. Folks have reported strange goings-on around these parts for ever since I can remember. Usually, it's attributed to our Lady in Blue."

         "And, just who is this Lady in Blue?"

         "Well, it's all legend of course; there are no real records of her. They say her name is Elizabeth Claire Donovan. She haunts the restaurant up on the cove. In the Roaring Twenties, she left her husband to romance a piano player at ‘Frank's Place;' that's what the restaurant was called in those days. Appears it was a pretty happening place during the wild days of prohibition. Anyway, her husband found out about the lover and killed her. I guess she never wanted to leave this place." Angela chuckled, "At least that's what they say. Maybe she's walking on your beach."

         Dan paused and studied the cute blond checkers face before he continued. "Could be, Angela; what do you think?"

         She laughed, "Me? I wouldn't know. I've never seen her and I've lived here all my life. But, I know folks who say they have, and they're good respectable, solid folks. Who knows, it could just be some early morning beachcomber. But again, maybe it's Cayte, that's what she prefers to be called--Cayte."

         "Clarice," Dan said softly.

         "No, it's Cayte" Angela corrected.

         "No, it's Clarice; that's the name of the character in my writing which was inspired by the footprints." Dan explained with a smile.

         "What a coincidence--that's close to Clair--Cayte's middle name." Angela nodded absently, "Don't you think it's a coincidence?"

         "Quite--but, yet again, it could also be that beachcomber's middle name."

         "It'll be interesting to check the beach tomorrow."

         "Why so?"

         Angela giggled slightly, "You really aren't from here; haven't you seen the storm clouds gathering out to sea. There will probably be quite a blow tonight. I doubt if any beachcombers will be walking along your beach tomorrow morning."

         "Ah, you're right; I didn't know. Thanks for the warning; and, thanks for the conversation. You've been very informative."

         "Well, we try to please; now, you have a nice rest of the day--goodbye."

         And with that the conversation was over. Dan drove back to the cottage occasionally glancing out to sea at the dark clouds on the horizon. It promised to be an interesting night.

         Shortly after 10:00 PM that evening the wind picked up noticeably; it was quickly followed by raindrops pelting onto the glass. Dan left the curtains drawn with the windows uncovered. There was something exhilarating about being next to the ocean, alone, at night and in a storm. He had typed on the story at a furious pace only semi-conscious of the assault of the elements outside his window. Somehow, it all fed his imagination and creativity. He pulled himself away from the laptop and focused on the window, which shielded him from the fury unfolding a fraction of an inch on the other side of the glass. A single floor lamp lighted the room. It was sufficient to work in and did not totally block his ability to see into the night outside the warmth of the cottage. He poured another glass of wine, rose to his feet, and walked to the sliding door. The rain was assaulting the glass in waves, almost an extension of the sea that was crashing to shore below the rim of the precipice.

         Ignoring the certain drenching onslaught of the rain and assault of the wind, Dan opened the sliding door, stepped out onto the porch and slid the door closed behind him. Almost instantly, he was soaked. He smiled at the force of the elements and walked to the edge of the porch. All concern and care about staying dry were abandoned; he surrendered to the moment and raised his face to the storm, which complied by wrapping its drenching tendrils around him. He allowed every concern to escape him and concentrated solely on the presence of the storm. He began to laugh at the shear joy of the moment as he stretched his arms out to both sides and began to turn slowly in a circle, allowing every inch of his body to experience the embrace of the storm. If anyone had seen him, they would have surely thought he had lost his mind. Nevertheless, at that moment, Dan did not care; the experience was exhilarating.

         As suddenly as light floods a darkened room with the flick of a switch, the feeling left him. It happened when he heard the scream. Although, he was not certain he heard anything at all above the roar of the wind and the pounding of the waves against the sides of the precipice. But, the scream occurred twice. At the second scream, he was concentrating to hear it; there was no doubt about it, someone screamed.

         He dropped the glass of wine on the porch and scrambled down the porch steps to the stairs at the edge of the precipice. He paused at the top and gazed into the face of the storm. He felt the spray of the ocean sting his face; the wind howled its warning. He could make out the shapes of waves turning to foam as they crashed onshore and charged across the beach almost up to the lowest rung of the precipice stairs. He did not want to descend into the chaos on the beach; he hesitated. A third scream gave him the shove he needed to descend into the maelstrom. He began his trip down to the beach and the waves. Each step down the stairs into the violent brine below brought a stab of fear. Nevertheless, he steadily made his way to the edge of the beach that held the bottom rung. The rain and waves soaked everything. Each roaring wave gobbled up sand and surf as it rolled to a stop just a few feet from where Dan stood. He had only a thin ribbon of beach on which to walk, and even that ribbon snugged up against the face of the precipice.

         Carefully he made his way along the edge of the beach walking towards the rock outcrop where the footprints had before always disappeared. Each step brought doubt as to if he had heard anything at all; and each step was an admonition to turn back, a warning. Nevertheless, Dan proceeded against the wall of the precipice--each step taking him closer to the rocks. Twice the waves rolled up to his feet and slapped the precipice wall. Dan was unaware of the nature of the tide. Was the ocean swelling with the tide? Did it threaten to cover him and pull him out to sea? He cast those thoughts from his mind and continued toward the rocks, almost running now. He could see the rocks, or at least he could see the violence of the waves as they crashed against them.

         It was at the base of the rocks, up near the precipice, he first vaguely made out a shape. It was difficult to distinguish from the foamy remnants of the waves. As he drew nearer, it gained greater form until he was certain it was a body. He ran forward through the surf until he stood directly over the form. It indeed was the body of a young woman. She was beautiful with long streaming auburn hair. The sheer gown she wore was soaked and clung transparently to her body. He would have smiled at her beauty had it not been for the grizzly sight of her throat. Each wave washed her face anew and carried the blood from her slashed throat out to sea. Dan reached for her; picked up her wrist to check for a pulse, which was useless because the savage wound in her throat had quickly stolen any promise of life from her body. He bent to scoop her up into his arms and carry her back to the cottage. At each attempt, the surge of the waves crashing against the rocks threatened to knock him from his feet and drop her into the brine. The wind and rain were relentless; they blurred his eyes and dulled his senses. He determined a better option would be to return to the house and call for help. In any case, he knew she was dead. He secured her body on the rocks and rushed back the way he came, through the tide and the storm.

         Upon returning to the safety of the living room, Dan immediately dialed 911 for assistance.

         "What is the nature of your emergency?"

         "There is a woman on the rocks at the beach; I'm certain she is dead."

         "How can you be certain of that, sir?"

         "She has no pulse and her throat is severely cut. I don't know how long she has been there; but, I am certain she has bled out by now."

         "Can you describe her and give me a location of the body?"

         "Yes, she is young, has auburn hair; I'd estimate she weighs about 115 pounds. She's wearing a light blue gown, very sheer. I don't know where the location is. I'm calling from the Conway Cottage."

         "Did you say she was dressed in blue and had her throat cut?"

         "Yes, ma'am. You'd better hurry before the storm carries her out to sea."

         "Sir, do you know the penalty for making a fraudulent 911 call?"

         "Excuse me?"

         "Let me get this straight. You're reporting a lady in blue who has been murdered near the Distillery Restaurant?"

         "I don't know anything about any restaurant. All I know is what I've seen."

         "OK, sir, we'll send someone out to investigate. Please stay where you are; we may need to get in touch with you."

         Dan hung up the telephone and found his way back to the couch. Before slumping into it, he poured himself a glass of wine. Laying back in the couch sipping the wine he ran the events over in his mind. The doubt cast by the 911 dispatcher worried him. Was there a chance he had imagined the whole thing? In the warmth of the cottage it was difficult to confirm the details of what his memory told him was true. For the longest time he mulled over the events repeatedly in his mind, until sleep finally stole his consciousness.

         He was awaken by pounding on the front door.

         "Open up! Open up in there, it's the police!"

         Groggily he made his way to the front door. Upon opening it, he was greeted by a man in uniform. He had grey at his temples and his mustache was mostly grey. The badge was prominent and said, "Chief."

         "Good, I was beginning to get concerned when you didn't answer."

         "I'm sorry officer; I was asleep--pretty soundly it appears."

         "I imagine so by the way I was pounding on the door." The man gave a slight smile and continued, "I'm Chief Johnson. I'm pretty much the law around here. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need to know if you're the one who called 911 last night."

         "Yes sir, I called. There was a body of a young woman. Out there on the rock outcrop--Have you found her?"

         "No sir, we haven't found no body out there. Are you sure it was a body?--not a log or a mess of seaweed?"

         "Chief, it was a body. I picked her up and was going to bring her back, but the storm wouldn't let me. I had to leave her out there."

         "What in the world were you doing down on the beach in that storm?"

         "Yeah, kinda stupid, isn't it? But, I heard someone scream. I heard it three times. I thought someone needed help."

         "Well, the storm blew out sometime around 5:00 AM. My men have been out there and combed those rocks pretty good. We didn't find any body. I don't suppose this is some kinda of sick joke, is it?"

         "Chief, I know what I saw. There was a body; this isn't a prank."

         "Well, all I know is there ain't no body out there now. And, it didn't wash out to sea. Nope, everything was washing in last night. If there had been a body, we would have found it."

         "There was a body, a young woman, with her throat cut!"

         "OK, I'll make note of it. But, until I find a body, this is over. You're welcome to stay in our little town Mister; but, I'd appreciate you not calling 911 any more--good day."

         Dan closed the door and leaned against it. Of course there was a body. There had to be; he saw it; he picked her up only to have to leave her to the elements to return to get help. He rushed through the house and out onto the back porch. He looked down the beach; the water was relatively calm and the breeze just a whisper of what it had been last night. He hurried down the steps and over to the precipice stairs. He hesitated at the top of the stairs. Did he want to go down to the beach? Did he want to know? Perhaps he should just pack his bags and go back to Fort Worth now. However, his hesitation was only momentary. He carefully descended the stairs to the beach below. He walked directly to the waters edge where by contrast to last evening the waves were gently ascending and descending along the beach with each lazy wave.

         He walked several paces down the beach before he saw the footprints. Just like on each previous morning--one set of footprints walking in the direction of the rock outcrop. He eagerly followed the footprints, conscious that he was nearing the rocks. However, suddenly the footprints stopped. Instead of continuing to the rocks, they stopped and turned around. Dan stared at the turned footprints now facing in his direction. It was as if she turned around and was waiting for him. He walked up to the footprints. He was almost standing on top of them. He closed his eyes and thought he could visualize her standing there in her sheer blue gown. He was sure it was his imagination. Nevertheless, he remained standing there with his eyes closed for the longest time.

         Then he felt his body quiver with a sensation that seemed to pass through him. He opened his eyes and turned around. Pressed into the wet sand were new footprints leading back the way they came. A chill ran up his spine. She had passed through him. And, yet he was not frightened. He felt he understood that, regardless of the violence of her death, she was happy in this place. Dan sighed and began to walk slowly back to the cottage. However, after taking a few steps he noticed something partially protruding from the sand, with just the slightest piece showing. He bent to check it out. It was a piece of cloth beneath the sand. He tugged on the cloth and it easily pulled up from the sandy surface. It was a sheer scarf of the lightest blue color he had ever seen. He shook the sand from it.

         He smiled. "I think she wants me to have it?" Dan whispered to himself. "Perhaps to remember her by."

         He folded the scarf and tucked it into his waistband. He smiled as he considered he would never be able to forget her. He came to this place empty of words. He would have no problem filling the pages now. She inspired him and motivated him to write again. He ran his hand down to the scarf and felt of it. She would be with him forever now--captured in the pages of his book and deep in the recesses of his mind. He smiled at that thought because he really didn't mind; in fact, it felt right.