Beulah

Cheito sat by the window and through the beating rain watched the surf climb the beach, sweep past the line of coconut palms and Australian pines, wash across the empty field and crash against the seawall behind the apartment building. He watched until it got so dark he could not see, and fell asleep that night listening to the singing of the storm. Early the next morning, the gale had died down to a fresh gusty breeze, the sky was clear, the waves a dirty chop, and the beach a tangled mass of seaweed and stranded fish. Crabs came out of their holes and scurried about feasting on the still fresh bounty. Cheito and his friends looked for any treasure that might have washed ashore in the storm, and finding none jumped in the water to play in the confused surf. Minutes later, he heard the people on the beach yelling and saw them pointing at the ocean. He turned around and two great gray shapes danced across the breakers, their wet skin glistening in the sunlight. Mouth agape, he watched them pass no more than 10 feet from him, porpoising along the shore, until they swam out of sight, into the misty horizon.

Jose M. Caldas, October 1, 2013.