The Hatch (2)

Our morning walk always takes us by the Lighthouse on the West Cliff point, overlooking Steamer Lane, a top Santa Cruz surf spot.

I’ve read that the Lighthouse was meant to house public restrooms in its basement, but the idea was abandoned at some point. The basement is still there, sitting empty.

Walking past the back of the Lighthouse on our regular walk, we heard a thumping noise. My dog Gonzo froze in alert. it was coming from the hatch to the basement. I’ve never seen the hatch open. No idea if there could be something in there.

The hatch was closed and locked. No way in, and I’m guessing no way out either. Remembering the plywood hatch we’d seen on the beach, I tried lifting it from all four edges, but it wouldn’t budge.

We walked on around the Lighthouse to where it overlooks the beach. The usual dogs and owners. Scout’s owners were tossing her ball, but she wasn’t chasing it. Rosie wasn’t chasing hers either. These are Ball Dogs.

The thumping continued, a deep bass thump. There were several of the usuals watching the morning surf, but no one seemed to be paying attention to the thumping. The homeless man was asleep on his bench, his cart and belongings all neatly arrayed around him.

Gonzo and I walked back around the Lighthouse, looked out at the parking lot. Maybe there was some maintenance going on in the basement.

Nothing but the usual morning scatter of cars and surfer trucks and vans.

As we were coming back toward the hatch at the back, the homeless man had sat up. He was watching us as we reached the hatch.

The thumping was now a steady beat, like a vibration in the air. The hatch itself had a quivering blue tinge to it. As I watched it, I began feeling a little out of sync, like things were happening a second before I saw them. Gonzo had sat down to stare at the hatch.

I looked back over toward the homeless man, and when I did, everything looked a little sharper than it had. It wasn’t the sun coming out. This was something else, a sharp edge to everything, the bench, the fence along the cliff, even the blades of grass in the Lighthouse lawn. Everything was knife edged, and the sound that had been coming from the hatch seemed to be coming from all sides now.

Memories poured into my head, a Boston winter Saturday when I was crossing the Mass Ave Bridge in the freezing wind, the afternoon I moved a turtle from the path in the park in Virginia, hiding under the bathroom sink in Mobile, . . . . More than memories. Experiences, real but at an almost dreamlike separation.

A kind of clunk sound, the hatch appeared to just close down where maybe a crack of light had been showing, and everything was back to normal.

The homeless man had turned to pack away his sleeping bag and other belongings. The dogs were chasing their balls again. Gonzo, who hadn’t moved since he sat to watch the hatch, got up to go on with our walk.