Vapors of a Lost Dream

Dad was getting married. Again. It was his third marriage but his first to take place on a beach. Chronicles Beach, named as such because of the centuries of adventures that had concluded upon its shores; Dad was to be another of its casualties.

Driftwood and debris littered the sandy coast; the bones of clippers and yachts and grand galleys made sodded jungle gyms up and down the sandy vista. The beach was rumored to be haunted, eyewitness accounts for almost a hundred years listing strange occurrences like disembodied voices coming from the wreckage and scores of people gone missing. But Dad didn’t care. He loved nature, loved to be outside and by all accounts, loved his newest wife. She loved this beach. The location had been her idea.

I arrived at the wedding late, by about thirty minutes, with my mom—the survivor of his first marriage. My dad hadn’t been abusive, but neither had he been caring in their partnership. Neglect had been his specialty and it proved to be a skill he retained for, as we parked along the windswept shoulder of the chip-sealed, lone road that led to Chronicles Beach, I spotted large signs pointed in the direction of a tiki bar. I didn’t drink and I thought my dad had known as much; he had proclaimed his respect for my decision boisterously in the past, but that had always been with a whiskey in his hand.

As we stepped out of the car, I sighed at the sight of the faux-bamboo bar and its teetering queue of customers; red-nosed cousins and slurring family-friends drowned out the DJ, positioned near the altar. Yelling over the spirited crowd and biting wind, I told my mom that I was going for a walk. I didn’t want to be around the open bar until the ceremony started, when everyone would sit down, and I’d be given something else to focus upon rather than my white-knuckled attempts to ignore the liquor only a few yards away.

“But don’t you want to find your dad and say ‘hi’ first?” Mom asked as she wrapped a red shawl around her shoulders. She had been hesitant to accept Dad’s invitation—they weren’t exactly bosom buddies—but she had come to support me; she knew I didn’t want to be there either, however, as the ‘Best Man,’ I had an implied responsibility to at least make an appearance. It being the second time I had been titled as such, I didn’t feel that responsible.

“No, I’ll see him during the ceremony and if he wants to talk, we can talk after he’s married Sarah MK. III.” Mom’s name was Sarah, his second wife had also been named Sara (minus the ‘H’) and he had kept the pattern going.

With that, I turned and began walking down the shore, towards a large A-frame structure protruding from the sand a few dozen yards away. As I drew closer, my hands in my pockets and my head foggy with bitter recollection, I saw it was the prow of an old freighter; wooden planks and rotten splinters radiated across the beach around its stricken skeleton. A few young kids clambered around the barnacle encrusted base, squealing and roaring with laughter as they staggered about, from my perspective seeming like the raucous crew that must’ve staffed the crashed ship, in a time past.

Through a gap in its aged, degrading hull, I saw that the ship prow contained a second floor; it was warped and at a steep angle in contrast to the steadfast, sandy beach. I hesitated as I moved to pass it; my intention had been to walk the length of the coast, about half a mile, and then to return to the wedding (I figured about then I’d be able to avoid the bar successfully). But something tugged at me, drew me closer to the ship than I realistically should’ve gone. Everyone knew the debris on the beach could be dangerous, rotting and discarded as they were; but that never stopped the kids and tourists from clambering around the treacherous remnants. I followed their example.

It was dark and musty inside the keeled over ship hull, smelling of salt, mold and forgotten journeys. I wondered what stories it had to tell. A ladder was propped against the far wall of the wreck, far more modern and sturdier looking than the surrounding lumber; it appeared to be an aluminum utility ladder, not too unlike the ones Dad carried on his truck for work. He was a roofer by trade. As I drew closer, I actually did recognize it from one of Dad’s job sites.

After casting my gaze around—the kids were screaming at each other on the other side of the damp boards that served as a wall to my shelter—I wrapped my fingers around the cold metal rungs and climbed the ladder as best I could in my stiff formal wear. The second level was slanted, but a series of shelves and a small table still stood in the corner on its buckling surface. Gingerly, crouched low to better distribute my weight, I waddled across the planking, inexplicably drawn towards the shelves and their contents. It was the same feeling that had convinced me to duck into the shipwreck in the first place; something wanted me here. I didn’t want to be at the wedding, so I let it draw me in. I should’ve known better, it was Chronicles Beach, after all.

On the shelves, built into the wall out of the same rotten wood as the hull, was a series of leather-bound books, a rusted tin lantern and a compass, shattered and twisted. The books were illegible, the titles on their spines blurry and splotched with water damage; out of a numb sense of curiosity, I moved to pick up the closest one to me.

“Careful,” said a voice, “you don’t want to become a Chronicler.”

I started and looked around, my eyes wide with surprise. I had been focused so far inward, so deep in my thoughts, that I hadn’t heard the person climbing the ladder behind me. It was Sara (minus the ‘H’) MK. II, clad in a black dress and matching black denim jacket, the colors of mourning.

“A Chronicler?” I asked as I gained my composure.

Sara MK. II nodded and moved towards me, gently taking the book from my hands and placing it back on the shelves.

“Your dad, and his new wife, made that mistake earlier today. You won’t recognize them anymore. Of course, you won’t recognize their victims either.”

“Victims?” I stammered in bewilderment. My dad's second wife had always weirded me out a little, having proffered an interest in all things occult since the day I met her, and her tone was so flat and neutral that it sent shivers down my spine.

“What’re you talking about? What’s a Chronicler?” I asked, taking a step away. The sloped floor creaked beneath my feet. I looked down to see I had narrowly avoided a fist sized hole in the splintered planks.

“Careful,” she repeated, “falling to your death is only slightly better.”

I furrowed my brow, befuddled and edged towards the ladder. “I should be getting back,” I said, “the ceremony will be starting soon.”

Sara MK. II nodded somberly. “Yes, it will be,” she intoned. Hastily, I clambered down the ladder, feeling Sara (minus the ‘H’) MK. II’s gaze on my scalp all the way down. What had that been about?

Strangely, it had almost turned completely dark by the time I was walking back towards the wedding. The children that had been playing in the shipwrecks had vanished and the sun was merely a faint glow on the horizon; the only other illumination on the beach came from tiki torches that perimetered the festive gathering. I should’ve seen the glow of the DJ’s computer or the bright PayPal station of the drinks bar in the distance, but I only saw the flickering flames; I only heard the crashing of the waves. Everyone was gone.

I froze in my tracks as I neared the spot where the wedding had been, I couldn’t see any of the guests or their cars. Not my mom or her dingy Toyota; I couldn’t even spot the several overwhelming aunts and uncles who I knew had to be there. I had only been away for a few minutes, where had everyone gone?

“Confused, son?” asked a deep voice behind me.

I whirled around to see my dad, dressed in a black suit, holding the hand of his newest wife, Sarah MK. III, clad in a billowing, ethereal white dress.

“Dad, where has everyone gone? Has the ceremony already happened?”

Sarah MK. III shook her head lethargically side-to-side. “No,” she murmured, “we conducted a ceremony for each and every one of them. There were tears and crying, it was all very sweet. But your ceremony is yet to come.”

Dad smiled and with glazed eyes, gave his new wife a peck on the cheek. I could’ve sworn a patch of pale flesh peeled away from her skull as he pulled his face back. Dad licked his lips and whatever I had seen, disappeared into the dark pit of his mouth.

“Where’s Mom?” I demanded nervously, “Where’s my mom? I think we should be leaving.”

“Nonsense,” Dad said and stepped forward. He put a pincer-like hand on my shoulder; it felt heavy, as if swollen with sea water. “We haven’t conducted the ceremony for you yet, son.”

“That-that’s okay, Dad. I’ve been to your weddings before, remember? I get the gist. Now, I really think I should find Mom and get going…”

Dad's hand tightened on my shoulder, I winced in pain. “In that case,” he said, “we’ll give you the abridged version. The best man has a responsibility after all.” And without another word, he and Sarah MK. III opened their mouths to reveal vast chasms of twinkling nothingness, as if I was staring into the endless majesty of space. Then, with a horrible sucking sound, I felt myself being drawn into that nothingness, my very essence being pulled from my body and into the ether. I was falling, I was sinking, I was rising; I was in every direction at once, suspended in a pitch void. Echoes of voices reverberated all around me as I faded into the nothingness. It felt gritty, like I was being scrubbed with handfuls of sand. It smelled like every delicious drink I’d turned down in my grim sobriety.

I hadn’t touched alcohol for over three years before my dad’s wedding on Chronicles Beach. As I was consumed by the ages, as the darkness enveloped me in a numbing vacuum, I felt my grip on my morals slipping. They faded into the nothingness right along with my grasp on reality. I couldn’t remember why I didn’t drink. Why–why then had I caused such a fuss? Why hadn’t I simply poured a drink for myself when I’d arrived and joined in the festivities? Why hadn’t I put the meaning of the day ahead of myself instead of being so bitter?

Whatever the answer, the beach knew. Chronicles Beach collected many stories; from ships and sailors to tourists and revelers, all from centuries long past. Chronicles Beach had a solution for any situation, and it was always found in the dark. That night, Dad and Sarah Mk. III had found the answer and shared it with the rest of my family; they taught us and really, it had been the simplest of things. All we had to do was let go.

Willing and unaware alike, our stories were added to the rest. With unsuspecting ease, the untold tales from years long expired lured us in and crashed us against the shore like so many adrift ships, lost in the vapors of celebration. We are but answers for the future’s questions.