The Beach

The map was beautifully colored in. The islands’ perimeters were drawn in green biro and little blue pencil waves bobbed in the sea. A compass sat in the top-right-hand corner, carefully segmented into sixteen points, each with an arrow tip and appropriate bearing. At the top of the map it read “Gulf of Thailand” in thick red marker. A thinner red pen had been used for the islands’ names. It was so carefully drawn that I had to smile. It reminded me of geography homework and tracing paper.[…]

Then, on one of a cluster of small islands I noticed a black mark. An X mark. I looked closer. Written underneath in tiny letters was the word “Beach.”

If Étienne was the one who turned the idea of finding the beach into a possibility, it was Françoise who made it happen. The odd thing was, she did it almost accidentally, simply by taking it for granted that we were going to try.

I wouldn’t call it a dream. Nothing with Mister Duck was like a dream. In this case, it was more like a movie. Or news footage, swaying on a hand-held camera.

I stubbed out the cigarette. “And the zeros. What are they about?”

Keaty smiled. “That was Daffy’s idea. It’s a date.”

“A date? The date of what?”

“The date they first arrived.”

“I thought that was eighty-nine.”

“It was.” Keaty stood up and patted the stabilizer fin. “But Daffy used to call it year zero.”

Within five or six seconds the silence was exploded by a burst of gunfire. It was entirely unambiguous, somehow managing to ripple through the trees like a quick breeze and tear through them with shocking loudness. A single burst, but a long one. Long enough for me to blink and hunch my shoulders, and then be aware that the shooting was still going on.

“Living with death. Time-limits on everything you enjoy. Sitting on a beautiful beach, waiting for a fucking time-limit to come up. Affecting the way you look at the sand and the sunsets and the way you taste the rice. Then moving on and waiting for it to happen all over again. For eleven years!” Mister Duck shivered. “… Then to have that cancer lifted. To think you’ve found a cure… That’s what you can’t imagine, Rich.”

I’m fine. I have bad dreams, but I never saw Mister Duck again. I play video games. I smoke a little dope. I got my thousand-yard stare. I carry a lot of scars.

I like the way that sounds.

I carry a lot of scars.

The map was beautifully colored in. The islands’ perimeters were drawn in green biro and little blue pencil waves bobbed in the sea. A compass sat in the top-right-hand corner, carefully segmented into sixteen points, each with an arrow tip and appropriate bearing. At the top of the map it read “Gulf of Thailand” in thick red marker. A thinner red pen had been used for the islands’ names. It was so carefully drawn that I had to smile. It reminded me of geography homework and tracing paper.[…]

Then, on one of a cluster of small islands I noticed a black mark. An X mark. I looked closer. Written underneath in tiny letters was the word “Beach.”

If Étienne was the one who turned the idea of finding the beach into a possibility, it was Françoise who made it happen. The odd thing was, she did it almost accidentally, simply by taking it for granted that we were going to try.

I wouldn’t call it a dream. Nothing with Mister Duck was like a dream. In this case, it was more like a movie. Or news footage, swaying on a hand-held camera.

I stubbed out the cigarette. “And the zeros. What are they about?”

Keaty smiled. “That was Daffy’s idea. It’s a date.”

“A date? The date of what?”

“The date they first arrived.”

“I thought that was eighty-nine.”

“It was.” Keaty stood up and patted the stabilizer fin. “But Daffy used to call it year zero.”

Within five or six seconds the silence was exploded by a burst of gunfire. It was entirely unambiguous, somehow managing to ripple through the trees like a quick breeze and tear through them with shocking loudness. A single burst, but a long one. Long enough for me to blink and hunch my shoulders, and then be aware that the shooting was still going on.

“Living with death. Time-limits on everything you enjoy. Sitting on a beautiful beach, waiting for a fucking time-limit to come up. Affecting the way you look at the sand and the sunsets and the way you taste the rice. Then moving on and waiting for it to happen all over again. For eleven years!” Mister Duck shivered. “… Then to have that cancer lifted. To think you’ve found a cure… That’s what you can’t imagine, Rich.”

I’m fine. I have bad dreams, but I never saw Mister Duck again. I play video games. I smoke a little dope. I got my thousand-yard stare. I carry a lot of scars.

I like the way that sounds.

I carry a lot of scars.