Randy White - Hunter's moon

I searched his expression to see if he was acting. Tough to read. “Are you as drunk as you look?”

He stared at the palm of his hand. I realized he was using it as a mirror. “Drunker,” he said after a moment. “I stopped dancing when I started to slosh. That was about six margaritas ago. But I still look pretty damn good… except for those weird stripes above my eyes.”

Joking. But also drunk. Or stoned. Or both.

“When you’re done with orchestra practice, can you sober up enough to talk?”

“Not a problem. I always back off the accelerator a notch or two come dawn. Besides”-he looked west, where the moon was dissolving into a blue and animated darkness-“it’s time to split. Tradition, man. We gotta dance the moon into the sea.”

Huh?

He motioned with his head -Follow me- as he stood. “Drumming ends at sunrise, man. All Hallows’ Eve becomes All Saints’ Day. The ceremony dates back to the Druids, so it’s gotta be done right.” He held up a bony finger. “Just one more bit of business before I can grab my lunch bucket and punch the clock. Be patient, okay?”

Before I could respond, he turned, calling, “Conga line! Conga time! Listen up, heathens.” Yelled it a few more times, adding, “Keep in mind, kiddies, we didn’t come here to have fun. ”

I have watched Tomlinson rally many conga lines. The jokes don’t vary much, but the results often do. I stepped back to watch.

He tucked the drum under his arm and looped the strap over his shoulder, waiting as others stood, dusting sand off their butts. Then he began to drum, as he instructed, “We must play the sacred hymn. Find the beat, comrades. Be the drum. The ancient mantra passed down to us from on high… from the king’s men of king’s men. Please join me in this grooviest of liturgies.”

Drummers parroted Tomlinson’s tempo: Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom.

It was distinctive. Simple. Oddly familiar.

“Feel the love, brothers and sisters, as we march to the Holy Church of Waves Without Walls. There we will wash our sins away. Afterward, I suggest we retreat to whatever bedrooms are available.. . in groups of two… or three… where I beseech ye to go-go and sin some more.”

There were bawdy hoots as a loose line formed behind Tomlinson. Hands on hips or drumming, they began a snaking dance toward the Gulf.

Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom.

Catchy. I was tempted to join when two waitresses from the Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille, Milita and Liz, tried to pull me into the line. Both were dressed as angels, although they’d jettisoned their wings.

Milita pleaded, “Come on, Doc. Relax a little… shallow up, man.”

Shallow up. A new Tomlinson line. It meant stop being serious; leave the burdens of depth behind.

I respect Tomlinson’s spirituality, but I don’t envy the emotional toll of its uncertainties. There are times, though, when I wish I could just let go, the way Tomlinson does. Like now.

Drums throbbed as dancers created a moving wave, some bowing while others stood.

Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom.

When they began to sing, I understood why the beat was familiar: “Louie Louie… oh no… Me gotta go…” Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. “Louie Louie… oh no…”

Tomlinson had said, “Kingsmen,” not “king’s men.”

“Please, Doc?” Liz was pulling at my elbow.

Milita said, “We don’t have to be at work until four. And we have that big house rented. There’re lots of rooms.”

But I have forever been, and will always be, an observer. And focus requires distance. As with a microscope, the degree of distance varies, but spatial separations, like walls, always stand between.

I gently disentangled myself from the ladies, promising to meet them later. Then I watched them hurry to join the conga line, dancing toward the Gulf of Mexico, where, I assumed, the unpainted members of the circle would strip naked and swim.

Swim?

I’d just been charged by a half-ton hammerhead. It was unlikely the shark would cruise the beach, seeking human prey, but I had to at least let them know it was in the area. Didn’t I?

Yes, I decided.

I should probably also offer to stand watch. Wait until they were all safely out of the water and even dressed, Milita and Liz included. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn’t it?

Yes, I decided.

Sand, like glass, is siliceous based, and the beach was vibrating like a window with the circle’s sacred mantra:

“Louie Louie… oh no… Me gotta go…” Boom-boom-boom. .. boom-boom. “Louie Louie… oh no…”

Near the drop-off, where I’d hooked the barracuda, the president was landing a small snook. He was also moving in flow with the music, enjoying his first unpresidential morning, doing juke steps that mimicked the conga line’s wave, his rhythm perfect but subtle, keeping it to himself.

The man could dance, too?

I tried a few juke steps myself as I followed the drum circle to the Gulf-an effort, at least, to shallow up.

Soon, though, I turned my attention to the sky. If the Secret Service discovered Wilson was missing, helicopter traffic would be the first indicator.

When I left Tomlinson, I slept for two hours, then strapped on shoes and ran the beach, pushing myself, alternating between hard sand at the water’s edge and sugar sand on the upper beach. To make it tougher, I varied the pace, sprinting ten seconds out of every minute. Brutal. But I’ve come to realize that travel is the natural enemy of fitness. You have to improvise on the road or you’re condemed to a roller-coaster ride of fitness decline.

I was in good shape. No, I was in great shape. For the last six months, I’d been living a Spartan life that, for me, has become a periodic necessity since slipping into my forties. It means swimming at least three times a week. Pull-ups and abs, every morning and evening, on the crossbeam beneath my house. Daily kick-ass runs, lots and lots of water, lean protein, few starches, and absolutely no beer or margaritas.

Tomlinson says I have a monastic side. That’s why I do it. He may be right, but it’s not the only reason.

For American males, our forties should be advertised as “The Most Dangerous Decade” because so few of us realize it’s true. It’s during our forties that most men die of heart attacks, smoke themselves across a cancerous border, or drink themselves into unambiguous alcoholism. It’s during our forties that most of us experience panic attacks, nervous breakdowns, depression, and a gradual, invidious weight gain that we will take to the grave. Men in their forties are also more likely to have affairs, divorce, and make asses of themselves by dating women twenty years younger, who, twenty years earlier, they wouldn’t have given a second look. It is during our forties that we lie awake at night, wrestling with decisions, and our own frail heartbeats, investing much thought and worry before deciding to go ahead and fuck up our lives, anyway.

I punish myself not only because fitness requires it but because I’m in my forties. I deserve it.

When I finished my run, I had a saltwater bath and returned to the cabin to find Wilson browning corned beef hash over a propane stove. He was pacing as he cooked.

“What time does the tide start falling?”

He’d seen the tide chart but often asked questions when he knew the answer. I said, “It’s late, around sunset. The wind’s out of the southwest so it could be after nine before it gets running.”

“Damn it, we need to get moving. Aren’t there usually two tides?”

“The Gulf of Mexico’s unusual. It happens.”

“I don’t understand why we have to wait.”