Rating: W, for wandering aimlessly
Word Count: 670
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: Dom loves the beach.
Archive: Please ask.
Everyone else is on the brink of revolt. They're sick of the beach. Sick of the sun. Sick of finding sand in their sheets. Matthew, Maggie, Jorge, Naveen...they're all beginning to question the wisdom of signing onto a series that shoots outside.
He loves the beach. Loves the weight of the sun in his blood and the taste of salt on his lips. The sand on his skin reminds him that everything is subject to the erosion of time--mountains, trees, money, fame, love...even loss. Nothing lasts forever. Carpe diem, as they say.
The Maori believe that their ancestors arrived in New Zealand over the water, traversing the oceans in wooden canoes called waka. Point of origin? Hawaiki, eponymous for Hawaii; currently serving as home. For Dom, the journey played out backwards; Ruapehu to Waianae via Boeing, with a stop or two along the way.
But the importance of the sea is not lost on him. Dom's read books that liken it to a sort of primordial womb for all life on the planet. He's listened to men tell tales of pulling their living in from the waters. He's felt the connection that sparks when you catch a wave at the perfect moment--when the elements merge: sky into water, water into wind, wind into now. It's a kind of religion, surfing, and he wishes he were charismatic enough to convert the world.
He studied the currents when he got to Oahu. Talked to the fishermen and the surfers. Introduced himself to the marine biologists that hang out at his favorite juice bar. That's how Dom knows that the very water he's standing in while he waits for them to realign the shot will pass under transoms of ships going 'round Cape Horn. Will follow the migration of the great whales up to Nova Scotia. Will circle back around past Iceland and Greenland to lap the shores of Ireland and slide down the curve of Africa's hip. The right sort of wave, he thinks, might just take you all the way around the world.
When he was ten, Dom threw a bottle into the sea somewhere off the southern coast of Italy. Inside, there was a note.
I know you're out there, still. Write when you get the chance.
The sentiment was part of an elaborate game played out on the sand with his brothers. "Lost", they'd called it.
And that's the real reason why he's on this beach here, now. The ocean has currents. So does Time. So does Life. Catch the wave. Ride it. Carpe diem. Carpe vita.
Now, as adults, the Monaghan boys play a game about the bottle when all are gathered around holiday tables.
Do you suppose anyone ever found it?
Yes, and he's a fisherman in Greece who thinks it's from a long-dead son. Yes, and she's a librarian on vacation in Florida. Yes, and he's a merchant marine in Alaska who pretends it's a love letter from the girl that got away.
Dom's got a pet theory.
Yes. His name is Billy and he found it floating in the Clyde. He doesn't know who it's from. But he knows about currents and he knows about waves. Knows how to ride them all the way home.
They called the game "Lost" because that's what they wanted to be. Lost to the trappings of civilization. Lost in a place where there was no school and manners were unnecessary. Lost in a way that did not require packing up your bedroom and moving every year or two. Lost in a way that enables you to find the things --the pieces of you-- swept along by the riptides in life.
So he stands here, on the beach, envying Charlie just a little bit and missing Billy just a little bit; stands here waiting for Matthew to find his mark and Jorge to quit goofing around with the camera man and he thinks about being lost. And being found. And the ocean. And the day.