Let’s just get this out of the way.
I’m an adult, and this blog is for adults. I will probably mostly use clean language and rarely go into detail about my sexcapades (ha, I don’t have any), but this is not designed to be for kids. So. Sorry for the slightly adult title, but now you know.
That’s how Kelly and I are. Broadway B*tches. Beach B*tches. Bad@$$ B*tches.
You get it.
My friend Kelly and I went to the beach. We agreed to try to go to the beach once a week, sit in camp chairs and discuss our writing.
She took me on a walk for almost an hour to find a special spot where we sat and ate cold pizza and warm Caesar salad. It was beautiful. We talked and we laughed and I haven’t been that happy in a while. I didn’t know that we had a beach that beautiful without going to another town.
The walk back was rough. It was colder; it was darker; we were tired-er.
When we got to my car, there was a note on it. It was a reminder that the beach park gate would close and lock at 8:30pm. I saw that and didn’t read the rest of the note because it was 8:26.
I started the car with the back door still open. I jumped out to shut it, then I had to fumble for my spectacles. I’d only brought sunglasses on the beach walk, and I didn’t know where my regular glasses were. I started driving before I found them. Then, the fog and settled on my windshield so I still couldn’t see. It felt so impossible to drive! I turned on the wipers and tore down the sandy road at an unsafe speed.
We got to the gate at exactly 8:30pm.
(Yeah, it’s for adults, but still, my mom reads this.)
The gate was shut and locked with no one around.
Kelly suggested we park my car on the side of the road, call her husband to pick us up, and hop the fence. We started that process when I looked at my note again.
To open the gate, you must call the Police Department.
Kelly does not like police. And you know what? In general, neither do I. I’m not proud to be prejudiced, but I am also not proud of the systemic racism, cynicism, and problems that exist in our country’s law enforcement. That’s a rant for another day.
I was almost going to go along with the plan to park and jump. Then I saw this:
Parking at the beach is prohibited during closed hours.
Sarah likes to follow rules. I don’t know if I’d get a ticket or towed, but I didn’t want to risk it. I love my car. Her name is Lady of the Lake, Lady for short. I wasn’t going to abandon Lady in a lawless way.
So, I called, and it was very painless. They didn’t even guilt me. The dispatcher said that she’d send someone.
Waiting in the Dark
I rolled down my windows and turned off the car. Kelly and I started brainstorming a horror screenplay. Two women visit a new town and go to the beach. It gets dark. They’re stuck inside the gate. They call to be let out–what happens?
They call–who? Park Ranger? Police department? The crotchety old groundskeeper?
Did they get trapped on purpose? Because someone changed the sign, and they thought they had plenty of time. Then, someone comes to kill them.
“Or, maybe it’s not a slasher. Maybe it’s a horror film. Maybe it’s supernatural.”
“Like a beach cryptid.”
“What’s a beach cryptid?”
“Like a Bigfoot. Maybe the snowy plovers band together and turn into a beach Mothman.”
“What was that?!”
“What was what? Should I roll up the window!?”
“Roll up the window!”
I think it was a moth, not a mothman. Talking horror when we’re stranded with the car windows open was a terrible idea.
The officer arrived, opened, the gate, and waved us through without talking to us. Easy-peasy. Sometimes stories have happy endings. Or even just boring ones.
Did you ever get trapped on the wrong side of a gate?