The Other Side of the Dunes

Picking through the rubble and debris of a leveled bungalow is tricky work. The sight of rusty screws, broken cinder blocks, and sharp, splintered wood shards make me wonder when I had my last tetanus shot. As I step over the unsteady mounds of rotting lumber and scrap, jumbo creepy-crawlies (that do not look like they are of this planet) skitter from their hiding places.

Breezy Point has earned its name, I thought, turning up the collar of my bomber jacket against the wind blowing in off the Atlantic. My Aunt Coleen lived here all her life, working as a teacher in the middle school. It seemed like she was forever on duty, looking out for the kids--even in the summer on the beach. She always had a cooler of water and ice pops at the ready, and was quick to send the little ones to their parents if they got too much sun.

It wasn’t fair how the hurricane destroyed everything. It happened so quickly. The storm and high tide swept the ocean over the dunes and into town, flooding and destroying most of the homes near the beach.

There is an insurance policy somewhere, but without it, a claim can’t be made. And that means I won’t be able to rebuild. And I don’t want to sell the property. Aunt Coleen wanted me to take care of it, to live here and enjoy life as she did.

“Breezy Point: Where doing nothing is doing something”, she’d say and laugh, “relax and unwind a little.”

Getting into the meat of the pile, sorting through broken furniture and the tattered remnants of clothes, I see something in the shape of a rectangle, meticulously wrapped with black duct tape. Could it be the policy?! Tucking it into my jacket, I take it back to the hotel.

Showered and changed, I sit on the floor and--very carefully--use my Swiss army knife to cut into the tape. As I slowly pick away, I find the tape is completely covering a plastic ziplock bag which holds a small black notebook. The cover is soft, smooth and pliable. I slipped off the elastic band that held the notebook closed. Printed on the first page were the words: “In case of loss, please return to: Coleen Byrne.

The grid-lined pages are filled with notes, recipes, poems, ocean current patterns, and tide times. Among these musings are quite a few exquisitely-drawn illustrations of mermaids. Or one mermaid, rather. She was always posed, perched on the jetty looking out at a sailboat in the distance. There is also a drawing of a woman standing on the beach crying, her tears falling into the sea. In the waves, a seal swims towards her. How odd.

I turn to the page held by the attached cloth bookmark, and come to a rendering of what looks like a bump-covered lump over the words: he brings a gift from the whales--ambergris.

Wow, now ambergris is a substance containing undigested, eh hem, “matter”, excreted by whales. It forms in waxy lumps that look like rocks and melts a little when heated. It’s very hard to find and is quite valuable. Perfumers will pay a steep price for ambergris because it acts as a fixative, which makes the scent of the perfume last a long time after it’s applied. Some dealers are willing to pay around $10,000 per pound of this “gift”.

Under the rendering, there’s a map of the jetty noting “watch points”, where to sit during certain times of the day, and the ocean currents. Did Aunt Coleen figure out where to find the rare and elusive ambergris? Exhausted, I make my way to the bed and drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The early light coming in through the windows woke me. Thoughts of what I found in the notebook had me recalibrating my original plans for the day--and the days to come. I divided my time between cleaning up at the bungalow, and sitting at the jetty watch points, inspecting every rock and stone that washed up on the beach. Day after day I looked. I smelled and squeezed and tested everything I found. At the end of the week I had nothing to show for it except for a tan and a few pieces of pretty blue sea glass.

There had to be more to it. How could she have spent all of this time out here on the jetty? Come to think of it, she never said anything about the ambergris to anyone. What was I thinking? Discouraged and dismayed, I trudged back to the hotel. The taxes will come due soon, and without the claim money--or money of any kind--I could possibly lose the property. And I still had a lot to sift through. I could really kick myself for spending so much time looking out into the ocean.

Back at the hotel, I picked up the notebook again, “Oh, Aunt Coleen, what do I do now?”, I sighed. I flipped through the pages, admiring her artwork. Flipping to the end I found her recipe for Irish soda bread. Nice to have, but...wait...at the very end of the notebook there is an expandable pocket. I thought it was just a reinforced back cover, but it was an actual pocket. Reaching inside, I pulled out an envelope. Carefully, I took out the contents: an old scapular, a very small--and very flat--red knit cap, and a plastic sleeve with a pristine 1992 penny inside. The penny sleeve had a label that read: Luck of the Irish - Close AM reverse. “C’mon, what does that mean?”, I yelled.

Taking a breath, I did an internet search on pennies, and found this particular type had a printing error, placing the “A” and “M” in America too close together. This was a rare defect, which makes the coin worth about $20,000 to collectors. Luck of the Irish indeed! Thank you Aunt Coleen. Knowing that I could sell this penny...well, it would give me the money I need to pay the taxes and give me more time to find the insurance policy.

I looked at the red cap again, it almost looked like it could be for a doll, but when I held it, it seemed to stretch very easily to a larger size. The pattern of the weave is delicate and intricate--unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And there was something about it. It was very soft and strong and had a slight shimmer to it, but I could not see any type of metallic threads. It had a glow of its own.

Carefully, I tucked it back in the sleeve. Something told me that I shouldn’t breathe a word of what I found to anyone.