Page 57 of Is This for Real?
“What town are you going to?”
“Saltaire.”
“At least it’s not Lonelyville.” He laughs at his own joke. Lonelyville is the name of a town three towns over from Saltaire.
Rory chats with him about fishing, having noticed the fishing equipment in the trunk when he stowed our luggage. As we cross the Robert Moses Bridge, the lighthouse beams. It’s really picturesque, even on this dark, rainy night.
We clamber out of the sedan at the wooden barricade preventing cars without year-round resident permits from proceeding further.
The car lights fade away. It’s just us and a sandy road ahead, carving out a path between mounds of dune grass. I’ve got my roller suitcase and Rory has the cooler-wheeler and his backpack. A cold trickle of water is seeping through at the back of my neck as my raincoat proves to be more fashionable than functional. I shiver. I can’t believe I thought that rainy suffering was a good idea.
We both try pulling our roller bags on the road. Oomph. They stop, stuck in sandy water.
I hoist my suitcase up. We trudge forward, the rain sheeting down around us, the sound of the waves crashing off to our right.
I hunch over to push against the wind. The cold air sweeps through my jacket, blowing through the openings in my sleeves and chilling me. My suitcase bangs against my leg. That last bump will leave bruises. I hold it with both arms in front of me. My fingers feel like icicles.
“You should walk behind me so I protect you from the wind,” he says.
“We can switch.” As I say it, I realize I’m too short to provide protection for him.
“I’m good.”
I step behind him. He does provide some protection, and I’m warming up now from the exercise of carrying the suitcase and the backpack. My hands are still icy, though.
Rory splays the flashlight from his phone ahead. The warm beam of the lighthouse off to our left beckons. Rory’s light reveals a pathway to the ocean to our right.
“Maybe we should walk along the ocean since we’re carrying these anyway,” Rory says.
“It will be harder to walk on beach sand.” This sand pathway has the benefit of being slightly packed down by the cars of those few year-round island residents. I step in a puddle; water soaks my shoe.
“It’s the journey, not the destination.”
“I don’t think this was the journey they had in mind.” I shift the suitcase to carry it with one hand.
Rory takes my hand. “Exactly. So, let’s go check out the ocean.”
The ocean is tempestuous, with high waves, but it’s not that windy, and since my feet are already wet, I remove my shoes. He does, too. We tie them by their shoelaces onto our bags and head toward the surf. My toes curl into the cold sand.
We walk along the surf, running up every now and then to avoid a wave swamping our clothes and, more importantly, our luggage. The water is not that cold compared to the air.
He offers to carry my suitcase, too, but it’s okay. He’s got the unwieldy, heavy cooler, and even though some of the food is in his backpack, it’s no easy feat to carry.
“Are you going to be able to recognize where we need to go inland?” Rory asks.
“I think so. The houses near her walk haven’t changed, thankfully,” I say. “This one stretch has all new houses, and it’s so disorienting. I can’t seem to replace the old ones in my head to recognize these.”
We’ve made it to the first town, Kismet. A few houses have lights on, so we’re not totally alone.
My legs are soaked. Several waves have caught me, although I did manage to save the suitcase from getting wet by raising it above my head. It was freezing at first, but now I don’t feel it. I stop to roll up my pants again.
Rory is setting a brisk pace.
We reach the town of Saltaire. We’re in the home stretch. I’m hot now from walking with this suitcase for a mile and a half.
I catch up to him.
“You look too dry,” I say.
