Shaun packed their lunch in a wicker basket that Amelie had bought for just such an occasion. Bobby brought in two cases of the new release of “Jeremy Barnes Vineyard” chardonnay produced by The Winery. A bottle was iced down in a plastic bucket, the car was loaded, and they were off.
Ten minutes later, Shaun whipped his ancient convertible into a turn-out by the winding coastal road. With Shaun leading, the three plunged into the dense forest of pine and occasional redwood. The woods shrouded a steep ravine as it fell from the coast hills to the sea. Two hundred yards down the creek bed they heard a rushing sound, not of the surf, but of a waterfall. The canopy and brush parted, revealing a granite chute over which a small stream cascaded. Thirty feet below, a quiet pool momentarily collected the water before sending it on its final rendezvous with the sea. Beside the pond was a flat carpet of sun-drenched grass. And providing an almost vertical backdrop to this idyllic setting was a steep, curved embankment covered with four-foot high ferns.
Amelie and Bobby knew immediately that this was Shaun’s chosen spot for their picnic. They set up camp on a wool blanket spread on the damp grass. From his vantage point, Bobby could look down the falling stream that again was covered by the converging trees. But Bobby also could see a tiny opening in the trees above the stream, and through it the vivid blue and white of the moving surf. Overhead, the sun blazed in a brilliant azure wash. Already it had begun to take up its winter residence in the southern sky, and the light it radiated gave a warm, golden tint to the surroundings.
The first late-autumn storm of the season had blown through three days earlier, cleansing the ferns and combing the trees of their dead needles. The bare patches of ground now held that rust-colored cover of needles, providing a natural complement to the lush green tones of the ferns and grass. And the norther had left in its wake incredibly clear skies, strong surf, and a faint wind. The breeze would rise intermittently and cause an eerie “swoosh” sound as it flowed through the needles of the overhead trees. Every few minutes a redwood would sway in the wind, emitting a slow resonant creak, a sound akin to that made by opening the heavy door of an ancient crypt. The sound wasn’t at all frightening to Bobby; instead he found it perversely soothing.
Bobby checked his breathing and realized that it was heavy. He was subconsciously taking slow, deep breaths so the rich ocean air could linger in his lungs. He turned his attention to the data being processed by his olfactory sense. The virgin air was crisp and clean, having traveled across over the Northern Pacific before filtering through the spicy trees; it made him incredibly hungry.
Shaun took the sandwiches from the wicker basket and divided them. Amelie removed the crystal glasses from their wrappings of table linen, and Bobby opened the bottle of wine. Shaun had prepared turkey sandwiches for the three. Inside of Amelie’s sourdough rolls were turkey breast, cream cheese and cranberry sauce. And on their plates were French-fried sweet potatoes. Bobby wasn’t sure if the setting or the sea air was responsible; but the ingredients blended together to make the simple meal into an incredible sensory experience.
“This sandwich is excellent. It reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner,” Bobby commented.
Shaun raised his glass. “Then we’ll toast to the memories of that first Thanksgiving dinner you and I spent together with your family years ago at your ranch.”
“To Thanksgiving.”
“And reunions.”
The three held up their glasses and the etched diamond pattern of the crystal stemware sparkled in the sun. The warm fall sunrays made the chardonnay appear even more golden than it was.
Wonderful wine, Bobby.”
“It’s a special bottling from a small vineyard that the winemaker kept separate. Extra oak-time and bottle-age before release. It represents the last harvest of Jeremy Barnes. It is special.”
“Yes, it should be.”
“Stan Bergen gave the unpressed juice six extra hours of skin-contact time because the fruit was in such good condition. We began picking the vineyard – the one right behind the house – at five-thirty on an unusually cold morning. When we dumped the gondolas at The Winery the juice was 48 degrees. Even the smell from the crusher told us we had a great wine.”
Amelie had been quiet through the meal, but finally she volunteered her opinion.
“Bobby, what is so appealing about your wine is that it is such a perfect complement to food. It is rich, yet crisp. The taste is so intense that to take a sip clears – awakens – my palate. The wine makes each bite of food taste as if it were the first.”
Bobby looked at Amelie for a long moment before he replied. “That’s one of the best descriptions I’ve ever heard for my father’s wine.”
Amelie blushed and looked away.
Shaun stood up, ending the awkward moment. “What do you say we all hike down to the beach for a bit? And on such a perfect, warm day I vote on making the trek au natural.”
Before Bobby could respond, Shaun had begun undressing. And despite her verbal shyness, Amelie quickly followed Shaun’s cue. Wearing only their shoes and socks, the three trudged down aong the tiny creek bed, having stashed their clothes near the pool. Halfway down, the pines made their final stand against the forces of the wind and sea. The creek opened upon a stark ravine separating two grass-covered knolls, both dotted with grazing sheep.
Shaun stopped suddenly and, mimicking the guide of an Audubon bird watch, signaled for his companions to carefully approach. He was crouched over a small pile of excrement obviously left by the nearby sheep. He pointed at several tiny orange objects protruding from the sides of the mass.
“Do you know what these are?” Shaun asked as he plucked out three of them and held one out for Bobby.
“Um – orange-flavored truffles?”
“Close. They’re psilocybin mushrooms. Magic mushrooms. They pop out of sheep shit a few days after a rain.”
“How do you know they’re not poisonous?”
“I knew someone in Guerneville with a picture book about them. He was a ‘collector’ and told me what exactly to look for in the perfect ‘shroom. Try one.”
Shaun popped one in his mouth and gave one to Bobby.
“Are you sure about this?” Bobby asked. “What will they do?”
“One little one will only cause a mild sensation. An increased awareness. Any effects will wear off before we leave. Trust me.”
Bobby put the tiny cap in his mouth and swallowed. The taste was horrible.
“Amelie?”
“Perhaps one of us should refrain, Shaun. That way I could call the Coast Guard and they could send out the big helicopter to save you two.”
“Amelie, trust me.”
She held the mushroom to her lips and flashed a pleading look to Bobby. He hoped she knew Juliet’s death speech in case this became a very poignant moment. Stoically, she put it in her mouth.
The three adventurers clambered down several large boulders and found themselves on the beach. Only a small trickle dug a shallow canal through the sand to meet the surging salt water; most of the stream fled underground for a private reunion with the sea.
Shaun had begun walking up the beach to search for abalone and sea anemones in a protected cover hidden behind a solitary land mass – a flat-topped, steep-cliffed peninsula connected to the headlands by a narrow land bridge. Amelie had paused and bent down to watch the slender stream race down the beach. Bobby approached and knelt beside her.
“Bobby, do you comprehend the significance of this little scene?’
“And what’s that?”
“We are watching the fulfillment of the life of every raindrop, the realized potential of every stream and river. We are seeing the moment of procreation for the major ingredient of our planet.”
“Yes, it’s beautiful. You certainly have an excellent command of the language.”
“My mother was an American.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“That she’s deceased.”
“She’s not. She revoked her citizenship.”
“Were you raised in America?”
“No. France.”
“How did you come here?”
“I came over to work. I married and stayed.”
“Here on the coast?”
“No, in New Orleans.”
“And then you came here?”
“Yes.”
From the inflection in her voice, Bobby could tell he was approaching too close. He rose and began to walk in the direction of Shaun. Amelie stood and scurried up so that she could walk beside him. Together they combed the beach for shells, pausing to examine driftwood and sand dollars and the blooms of the succulent plants clinging to the cliffs buttressing the narrow beach.
Eventually Amelie drifted away from him, and the three were each in their own little world. Shaun was far ahead in the protected inlet created by the sea butte rising out of the ocean thirty yards off shore. The short walk and the sea air had tired Bobby and he found a dry patch of sand on a wind-whipped berm. He sat down and assumed a cross-legged position facing the surf. Amelie had spotted a flat granite rock jutting out of the sheltered, complacent water only a few yards from the shore. She stepped out through the chilly water and climbed atop it. She lay prone, gathering the warmth of the sun.
Bobby closed his eyes and for the first time perceived the effects of the orange mushroom. Listening to his surroundings, he concentrated his hearing on a small spring gurgling out of the cliff at his back. He focused forward to the sound of the water splashing around the protected rock on which Amelie sat, then still further out to the roar of the omnipresent surf. Manipulating his mind without moving his body, he changed the plane of focus from horizontal to vertical, as a studio photographer would by tilting forward the lens plate of a view camera. First he focused at ground level and listened to the buzz of the sand flies in the clumps of kelp and sea grass strewn at his feet. At head high, he could hear the light breeze whip past him, the sound reminiscent of the flapping of an unsheeted jib. At thirty feet above sea level he heard the piercing cry of an osprey and the roar of the surf as it was carried by gusts over the cliff. At infinity, directly above his head, he heard the faint rumble of what must have been a silver speck, a distant jet as it began its descent into The City.
How odd, he thought, to be able to choose what I want to hear. To be able to focus on a sound, examine it, turn it around in my mind. A piece of fungi growing in sheep shit can do all that?
Bobby opened his eyes. Directly in his field of view was Amelie lying on her rock intently watching a tiny sea animal in a pool carved into the rock’s base. Her pose reminded him of the fairy in Stars, a Maxfield Parish poster. The late-fall sun backlit her body, creating a halo – a golden radiation around her. For the first time he appraised her in her nakedness. She had a stunning figure. He had no idea how old she was. She was one of those rare women who are ageless between the years of 20 and 35. She wasn’t what he would call thin, but she was firm, athletic. Her healthy tan told Bobby she sun-bathed nude at her home that was behind the first ridge, sheltered from the summer fog.
Bobby was beginning to realize the beauty of what lay before him. Two hues dominated the scene. The azure sky with brush strokes of high cirrus blended into the deeper blues of the North Pacific. Contrasting the backdrop were the intruding earth tones: the dark brown of the rock, the deep tan shades of Amelie, the golden reflection of her skin exposed to the sun. The colors were intense, almost gaudy.
He felt the scene could not be improved upon, that he beheld perfection, but then his eyes darted left to observe a flock of a dozen brown pelicans lumbering into view. They flew in a perfect “V” formation behind Amelie, further out to sea. From his view they were between her and the brush-stroked clouds. Just as Bobby composed himself to record this moment, as the pelicans approached above and to the left of Amelie, a mischievous wave hit the base of her rock and sent a white plume – a fan – of spray into the air, a translucent sheet behind her.
“Click,” he whispered, and he quickly shut his eyes. It took a minute to develop and fix in his mind the image he had projected on his mental picture screen. It was, he thought, an award-winning photograph that he alone could savor and never have taken from him.
After what seemed an eternity Bobby felt a shadow pass by. He opened his eyes to see Shaun looking down at him, the sun blazing around his silhouette.
“Hey, guru, let’s go explore.”
“What?”
“Let’s go climb up the cliff of that island and see what’s on la mesa.”
“How do we get out there?”
“We’ll hug the beach out and find a trail up the cliff.”
“And if the tide comes in?”
“We can walk back over that land bridge.”
Bobby pulled out of his trance and followed Shaun.
“Amelie! Come hike out to the island with us!”
“No, go ahead you two. I’ll meet you on top of the headland in a bit.”
Bobby contemplated their little adventure. The island was a plug of granite that rose high above the surf thirty yards from the shore. It wasn’t a true island, for a narrow column of clay connected it with the mainland. The eroding land bridge rose fifty feet above the rock-strewn beach that was exposed only at low tide, and the tide was out as Bobby and Shaun hiked over to examine what in a few more seasons of winter storms would be a completely isolated island. Shaun found a narrow path leading upward, and after a strenuous climb the two were on the flat parcel of earth sixty feet above the sea. They were amazed at the amount of bird life on the budding refuge. Dozens of oystercatchers and cormorants and petrels had built nests in crags of rock or in the low bushes on its flat top. Bobby found an empty nest on the ground and studied it until two birds appeared, creating an intense commotion.
“Bobby, we ought to be getting back soon. Amelie has to bake the pastry shells for tomorrow and we still have the real hike on our agenda.”
Bobby looked across the land bridge to Amelie, who had climbed up from the beach onto the mainland cliff.
“Are we going to have to climb all the way back down and up again?”
“No. We’ll take the land bridge over since she’s already up there.”
“Are you sure we can cross that? It looks pretty narrow.”
“I was out here last spring and saw some hikers crossing it with backpacks. We can make it. Trust me.”
Shaun led the way. The land bridge was an eroding umbilical cord between the receding mother cliff and the defiant child island. The cord was nothing more than a ridge – a long, pinnacle-like band of soft dirt that, with a few more tempestuous assaults, would crumble and wash away. Shaun crawled a dozen feet down the island cliff to begin the walk across the path. Bobby followed. Shaun stepped lightly and quickly over the roller-coaster, foot-wide path – a thirty-yard trek between the outpost and the safety of the waiting Amelie. Bobby hurried to keep up with Shaun, who was intent on making the crossing as quickly as possible. Bobby riveted his attention on the tennis shoes of Shaun, for he felt no desire to see the boulders scattered on the beach fifty feet below; he had never been completely comfortable with heights. Bobby, who at first was relieved that he had on his hiking boots, realized that this precipice was more for a mountain goat – or a 150-pound man in tennis shoes – than himself. Bobby also noticed that what he thought was an optical illusion – that the path maintained its width, it only appeared to converge in the distance – was not true; it really was becoming narrower.
Shaun had begun to slow his pace and be more careful in placing his feet. He turned his head slightly, and without taking his eyes off the path, spoke from the side of his mouth.
“This isn’t quite what I expected, Lewis.”
Bobby took his cue. “Right you are, Clark.”
The inverted “V” on which they trod was not made of granite or sandstone as were the island and cliff. It was made of crumbling clay and bits of rock that had withstood the forces of erosion only because of the protection offered by the sheltering island. Bobby had begun to notice that chunks of dirt on the edge of the eight-inch path beneath them were giving way and dropping out of sight down the almost vertical bank of the ridge. Bobby lifted his eyes momentarily and saw Amelie watching them from the cliff twenty yards ahead. Her expression he caught in that instant was not so much one of disdain at their attempting this foolish escapade, but of resignation; boys will be boys.
Shaun quickened his pace, apparently realizing that to dwell at a particular spot on the path was dangerous, for the sustained weight on the weakened clay-dirt soaked in the rains earlier that week could cause a sudden landslide.
Bobby felt a minor tremor under his feet and looked ahead to see the patch of ground under Shaun shift. Shaun paused in a moment of disorientation. Realizing his predicament, he bound like a gazelle the final half-dozen yards to the safety of the opposite cliff. In his wild flight, Shaun had begun to veer to his left. Only his forward momentum and the nearness of the cliff kept him from plunging down its face to the rocks below.
Bobby had paused when Shaun faltered under the landslide, and suddenly he felt the earth at his feet begin to let go. Bobby leapt face forward onto the spine of rock and clay and dug his hands into the dirt, his face pressing against its back. He was riding the cliff as a child would ride an old nag bareback. He looked up and over to Shaun and Amelie, both kneeling in the asylum of the cliff twenty feet away.
“Come on! Move it, Bobby! Before it gives way!”
“Hurry! Please hurry!” Amelie pleaded.
Bobby began to inch forward; it was impossible to turn around and flee back to the island. He put his hands forward and placed his weight upon them and dragged his body over the dirt and rock. He gave a second’s though to his situation. Here was Bobby Barnes, a grown person in charge of one of the best vineyards in the world, dragging his exposed genitals across a pinnacle of sharp stones and dirt clods. He wondered how he got himself into these situations. A small, involuntary laugh escaped as he continued to pull ahead. Shaun and Amelie glanced at each other in wonder.
Ten feet from the open arms of Amelie and Shaun, Bobby felt his support crumble and give way. He could feel his feet seem to come together beneath him where the dirt had eroded and fallen away. In slow motion, as chunks of rock slipped away, Bobby began to sink. He looked up at the two, their arms outstretched, on their faces the look of useless non-swimmers watching a child drown in the surf. In that moment he felt a pang of guilt for upsetting Amelie and Shaun, for ruining their day. In a perverse attempt to cheer them up he raised an arm bronco-rider style and let out a half-hearted “yee-ha!” – an interesting response for a man in the throes of death, but not original; Slim Pickens had used the line when he rode the A-Bomb down in Dr. Strangelove.
As chunks of earth fell away under one cheek of his ass and then the other, Bobby leaned from side to side to keep from being thrown off his natural saddle. Eight feet down and a ton of fallen dirt later Bobby’s ride stopped. He now appeared as a naked baby on an outrageously sway-backed Trojan horse. He looked up to the two and smiled. Amelie was hysterical.
“Shaun! Aidez-le! Sauvez-le! Il se meurte!”
“Bobby, don’t move! I’m going to run back to the car and flag down someone with a rope and call the Sheriff. The Coast Guard! They can get you off there in their helicopter.”
Shaun began to step back from the cliff. In a determined voice Bobby answered, “No! Shit no! Stay here. I’m either going to be on that cliff or on the beach by the time you get half-way there. Just get ready to grab me if I make it up.”
Shaun knelt down. Bobby went to work digging steps in the perpendicular wall on which he sat. Intermittent small slides caused him to pause in his digging. He was able to push and punch against parts of the weakened dirt, sending it careening off the ridge, making him wonder how he ever made it that far in the first place. Slowly he raised himself up on his man-made steps, dragging his naked scrotum up and over the narrow blocks of ground. Bobby wondered if he’d be charged with self-abuse if he made it out off this alive.
Soon he was only six feet out and three feet down from his companions. He could almost reach up and touch Shaun’s outstretched hand. He continued to dig his crude steps until his fingernails hit a large rock mortared into the dirt.
“Shaun, I’m going to try and put a foot on this rock and make a leap for it. I’ll grab your hand. You pull me up as hard as you can. Got it?”
“Yes. Be careful.”
Shaun had Amelie anchor his legs by sitting on them. Bobby made his final preparations.
“Are we ready?”
“Yes.”
Bobby quickly knelt up, planted a foot on the rock, grabbed Shaun’s hand and pushed off of his primitive step. The dirt at his feet gave way, but for an instant provided the support needed for him to spring up off the stone. With Herculean strength, Shaun catapulted Bobby over his shoulder – into the open arms of Amelie. She hugged him as a mother would her child, his dirty face at her naked breast, her soft hand stroking his disheveled hair.
“You little boy. You stupid little boy.”
The import of his predicament began to sink in. Bobby held her tightly and hoped never to let go.
“Why did you do it?” She said, including Shaun in her scolding. “You fools. Did you have to prove you were men?”
Bobby pulled away from Amelie and stood up. His legs wobbled beneath him.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I think so. I, I only followed Shaun because he said we could make it. I always trust him. Why not now?”
Bobby took stock of his body. He was covered with gray dirt. He looked down and noticed dozens of bright-red superficial cuts and scratches on his penis and scrotum and inner thighs.
“I’ve failed in my attempt at self-mutilation.”
“You’re sick, Bobby,” Shaun mumbled.
“If you two will excuse me, I believe I’ll perform the ancient ritual of those who have battled and conquered the elements. I’m going to go over there and take a piss into the wind off that cliff.”
Bobby hobbled off over a slight rise to find the privacy to relieve himself. Amelie continued to scold her friend.
“Why did you take such a silly risk? You could have been killed.”
“I don’t know,” Shaun said in a bewildered voice. “It didn’t seem dangerous at first and then we couldn’t turn back. I’m sorry I did it.”
Amelie accepted his apology by changing the subject.
“Shaun, have you ever seen one so close to death, yet so calm as him? He – he was laughing and joking when he began to slide down. If what I saw was bravery or heroic resignation, then it is all so stupid. A waste.”
“I don’t think what we saw was bravery, Shaun replied, pausing as Bobby returned.
Bobby strolled toward them. His body was still grimy from the ordeal but his attitude had changed to one of nonchalance, as if it never had happened.
“I have an idea. Let’s celebrate the joy of living by holding hands and running through this meadow. It’ll be a good way to release some of the stress.”
Amelie took Bobby’s suggestion and grabbed her children in each hand. The three ran across the green oceanside pasture, scattering the puzzled sheep in their path. Amelie sang her babies a French children’s song until they reached the place where their little stream emerged from the trees for its final sprint to the sea.
They were a short distance from the pond when Shaun raised his hand and crouched down.
“What is it?”
“I hear someone up at our camp. Our clothes are up there. Stay quiet and keep down.”
The three crept along the stream toward the clearing. Amelie acted as if she were a member of the Hmong Hill tribe on the hunt for a rabid tiger. Bobby acted as if he felt very naked.
Shaun hugged the bank and stopped in the safety of tall ferns at the edge of the pool. He pulled back on a giant frond. The intruders were three deer: a six-point buck and two does. The does fed on the grass while the buck kept watch.
The ferns, the deer, and the falls together made the scene appear prehistoric, pre-man. The three were speechless. They remained motionless for a long time. Bobby glanced at Amelie and noticed a single tear sliding slowly down her cheek. From their perspective below looking up toward the glen, the image was reminiscent of a Minor White photograph. But from up in the trees looking down on both the deer and the human spies, the sight was comical. For there were the three people, naked but for their shoes and socks, observing the deer from their hiding place behind the ferns. The deer, unaware of their visitors, continued their picnic on the lush grass just a few feet from the blanket and wicker basket. The picture was a cartoon – if it had been painted by Courbet.
Slowly the deer wandered off up the fern bank. The humans invaded the glen bathing briefly in the pond before they put on their encumbrances and broke camp. No one said a word. The sight had such a lasting impression on the three that the incident at the cliff seemed to be a day-old memory.
By the time they arrived at the car after their climb upstream, the fog bank that lingered offshore had crept close enough to send its white fingers inland over the coastal road.
At the end of their drive back Shaun performed his patented skid in the gravel drive of the café. They piled out and trudged inside for hot coffee. From the same window he had peered out at the sea earlier that day, Bobby gazed at a gray blanket of fog rolling up over the cliff and into the garden. Amelie’s children, glowing in the muted light, appeared so different, yet still as beautiful as ever. Shaun brought each of them an espresso and revealed his plan for the rest of the day.
“Are you still up to a trek in the redwoods? With this fog rolling in it will be an unbelievable sunset up there. Amelie?”
“I’d love to, Shaun, but I have so much to do for tomorrow. You two go ahead.”
“Bobby?”
“If you promise it won’t be a exciting as our last Great Adventure, I suppose I’m up to it. I get out this way so little. I always forget how beautiful it is.”
“I remember something an old beachcomber told me a couple of months ago: To live fifty miles from the ocean is to live a thousand. I suppose there’s something to that.”
“You bet there is. Let’s go.”
