The plastic flaps to my golf cart flapped loudly in the wind as I coasted away, then down Wynd Road, on my way to pick up my friend. A lone surfer caught my eye, coming into view briefly between the houses. The guy was way too far out. On South Beach, where the waves crashed fast and hard. Not ideal surf conditions on a good day. I slowed down and watched, looking to see if I saw anyone else out there with him. I caught a glimpse of someone standing on the beach and pressed the accelerator.
The loud, billowing horn sounded, and I sped up. I parked in a spot at the same time the ferry glided into the harbor. Within minutes, my clean-cut friend meandered down the stainless steel plank in a pressed button down oxford, khaki shorts and leather loafers, chatting up one of the other passengers. He saw me, waved, and headed my way.
“Hey, man, so good to see you.”
“You too. It’s been a while.”
He slapped me on my back and shook his head, right as large, chilly water droplets rained down on us from above. We slid into the front seat as the sky opened up. Rain splashed our legs and covered the seat as we struggled with the zippers for the side flaps. We laughed with relief once we had it all zipped up.
Once again, I pressed the accelerator, but with more caution, as the windshield wipers on my grandmother’s decades-old golf cart barely functioned. It wasn’t like we were in danger out here on the roads of the island, but I didn’t want to ram someone in the ferry parking lot or on the way back home.
“I brought the good weather,” Gabe joked.
“Only for today. Rest of the weekend should be nice. Tomorrow morning’s surf should be good.”
Lightning cast a shot of light across the horizon, and I searched the waves heading back, hoping the lone surfer had found his way home.
Gabe hit the side of my arm. “What’s up? Ten years. It’s good to see you.”
I glanced at the ocean one last time, then focused straight ahead on the road, which now had several inches of rain over the black asphalt in places, sending sprays of water out both sides of the cart.
“Keep an eye out on the waves as we pass by, okay? I saw one nut job out there by himself.”
“On this side? I thought all the surfers were on the other side.” Gabe had spent plenty of time here, too. I’d spend my entire summer here, but he’d always come down for a week to visit.
“Yeah, that’s where the surfers who know what they’re doing go.”
Gabe got it and dutifully twisted so he could watch out on his right side as the angry, white-capped ocean came into view between the houses and dunes. Not exactly Coast Guard protection, but it made me feel better knowing we were keeping an eye out.
As we drove up Killegray Ridge, all the cottages went dark. “Shit. We lost electricity.”
“You got beer? We can sit on the porch and watch the storm.”
I thought about the dark, musky smelling cottage and the slim pickings I had for food. My plan had been to take him out to dinner, anyway. “How do you feel about going to Jules for a few beers and dinner? My treat. They should be on a generator.”
“Works for me. Let’s at least stop by the cottage to drop off my bag. I need to change shoes too.” He kicked up a leg to show me his rain-splattered leather loafers. “This is flip-flop land,” he added with a grin.
So much about Gabe made him an unlikely friend. Everything about him said preppy, conservative, financial business guy. He even had a framed photo of Ronald Reagan in his bedroom growing up. And then there was me, tattoos, faded tees, Greenpeace activist, and, while I tried to avoid the haze of U.S. politics, I sure as shit didn’t think much of any Republican. Yet we’d been friends since we were four. The kind of friendship that acknowledged differences and appreciated our shared history.
We parked as close to Jules’ entrance as I could manage and ran up the wooden steps to the marina side restaurant. Rain gushed down on the vast, open deck overlooking the marina. The single glass door tinkled as I pulled it open. I nodded at the hostess and led the way past the small indoor dining area, down a long narrow hall, to the lacquered L-shaped bar in the back.
The seafood restaurant had two different menus to select from. One with seafood, a lot of it fried, and the other a sushi menu. If you ordered from both menus, your food almost never came out at the same time. The drink menu catered to the tourists, with a wide variety of sweet concoctions with Jimmy Buffett inspired names. They also offered a decent selection of drafts. In peak season, waits here often exceeded an hour. Fortunately, in September, the crowds had thinned, and we easily found two barstools.
The bartender slid our beverages of choice over to us, and before we had a chance to discuss food, Gabe lit into me.
“So, dude. I don’t get it. Why no contact?”
“It wasn’t a choice. Believe it or not, there are places on this planet without signal.” A mirror hung on the wall behind all the shelved liquor bottles, and I attempted to avoid my reflection.
“Is that why you missed the funeral?”
A dull throb intensified, and I rubbed my forehead, attempting to ease the ache. I’d hoped Gabe wouldn’t dive right into everything the moment he arrived. No such luck.
“For the thousandth time, I was on a ship in the Bering Sea when Dad died. You don’t just book a flight and make it back in forty-eight hours.
