The sky over the Oregon Coast was gray that afternoon, but not the kind of gray that carries weather. No rain, no fog — just cloud cover holding the sun somewhere behind it, and the water and sand and air settling into blues and grays that rswfire named aloud as the whole vibe of the day. He was walking at the water's edge with Buddy on a leash, in the section of beach where ATVs and motorbikes are permitted to drive. It was mid-summer, and he noted the crowd: more people than the off-season brings, which he called strange.
The walk was not his to set the pace of. He said so directly — technically the dog was walking him. Buddy would not match his stride no matter how much bleeding he did, and rswfire allowed that the dog either didn't realize or did and was simply stubborn. He kept the leash on. Buddy is not his dog, and he doesn't take a dog that isn't his off-leash, not even on open sand. There had been an incident once in the woods, a squirrel, a dog gone after it, and he named that as the reason he doesn't test it here. Twice during the walk he stopped and turned Buddy toward the water — hold on, buddy, let's take a moment — inviting the dog to look at the ocean.
The ocean was what set the scale. rswfire observed that he had never gone over it. Something the size of a continent, and he had never crossed it, not by air in the way he meant, not even on a boat. He said he had to do these things. He named John, and a promise attached to it: if everything works out, he's taking John to Hawaii by boat. John always liked boats. rswfire wasn't certain whether John had ever lived on one, but named him a big boat person, and let the plan stand as stated.
Then the crowd, and the thing running alongside it. He said that for a while he had really just wanted to meet everybody, and that now he had gone back to the part of himself that is more closed off — closed off ever since Honeyman. He said he didn't know why, that he had asked himself this many times. He named the reason as precisely as he could: he doesn't want to feel like they want anything from him. And then he named the shape of the outcome without softening it — for this to be the result, that is a cruel fate. He said he resists it. He did not resolve it. He said that ever since then he had just felt more closed off, and kept walking.
The motorbikes came up the beach. He wanted one. He had never been on a motorbike, and he asked people about it — whether he could even do this at his age, out on the dunes. But the wanting was already running through logistics rather than fantasy. It would have to be highway-legal so he could take it out on the 101. He had wanted a quad, but a quad can't be towed if he's triple towing, and a motorbike could mount to the front of the Jeep or simply be driven into the RV. He said he thought it would be so much fun. And then, watching them pass: he wished some hot man would offer to take him for a ride on one. That'd be even more fun. He weighed it, revised it — maybe not more fun, equally fun — and settled it on the spot. Yeah, we're going with equally.
They reached the part of the beach where the ATVs are allowed to drive, and Buddy remembered before rswfire did. The dog barked at the motorbikes. Only the motorbikes — not the quads. rswfire said he had completely forgotten about this, twice, and steered the dog aside. It's okay, buddy. Let's just come over here. Come on. Come see the ocean. Buddy really hated going. And rswfire named the arrangement plainly, the ordinary comedy of it: they live on an ATV campground at Siltcoos. It's just a whole thing.
That was the start of his afternoon.