The coast was cold. Much colder than we expected it to be. A heavy fog rolled in from the sea, consuming waves and trees and sun. The little nook that my family occupied was behind a smart cropping of rocks, against a cliff that rose some 50 feet into the air--the last 15 being a straight drop to the sand. Between the two fixtures of rock we were well protected from the wind, and able to insulate what heat we had.
A cry startled us, as we saw three young kids sliding recklessly down the cliff. At first, they screamed in sheer delight. Quickly, however, that delight turned to fear as a boy, aged about 10 years old, toppled head over heels down, down, down. He caught hisself at the edge of the sheer drop. His sister and cousin, approx. ages 7 and 8 followed sliding on their backs and bottoms, now also screaming in fear.
Rocks began to tumble. Sand poured from the fissures they were creating with their falls. The first boy dangled on the cliff, trying to get down...and then he jumped, landing in the sand below with a soft thud, but twisting his ankle.
The other two clung desperately to the rocks, screaming, scared.
We run up. They won't listen to our instructions. Just then the girl's father, the boy's uncle, runs up. He climbs the rocks and we all create a chain to hand the frightened children down. They are safe.
We continue on with our merriment. The fog rolls away. The sun comes out. We splash and play in the cold ocean, the water chilling our bones, the sand encrusting our legs as we build a sand helicopter. A beautiful day--the dread and the scare from the morning's ordeal gone.
It's a few nights later. We're at home, in bed. The sound of running on pebbles reaches my parents bedroom. My dad bolts up, pulls his clothes on, and runs out the door. There are cops everywhere. Someone has run into our back yard. Run away from the cops he fears.
My dad tells the police of the sighting. They acknowledge it, and tell him to go back in. They bring in the dogs to find the perpetrator.
We sit stiff in the house. My mom tells me about it, warns me to stay quiet--they're trying to listen to find out what is going on. They stand by the open windows and doors. My blood runs cold as I see the object in my dad's hands--a gun. He means to protect us no matter what the cost.
I'm frightened--not of the assailant, but of what might happen if my father thinks it is necessary to use the object in his hand. Few things are so certain, so scary, so devoid of forgiveness and shooting a gun and hitting a mark. What if it were to go off accidentally--hit one of us? What if it causes bullets to fly unnecessarily from our unknown visitor? What if he's forced to use it, and we have to live without him? I would melt it if I could. Melt it, destroy it, and forbid it's like from ever entering the house or touching his hand.
He puts it away. He knows I am mad that he got it out to begin with. I didn't keep it a secret.
We sit, silent. I'm in mine and my sister's room. She's laying on the floor in her makeshift bed of feather mattresses and comforters, snoring softly. Moonlight illuminates her pale face and body from the open window. So serene. So calm. So unassuming of the dangers that this world offers.
The lights turn off suddenly. The dogs bay one more time, and then there is silence. One by one we hear cars pulling away.
"Did you get him?" My dad asks through the front door to the police officer in our front yard, just getting into her car.
"He's in custody." Is the reply. And then they are gone.
We sleep in what peace we can salvage from the night.
