@Rudeboi · 1998–2020
The bunkhouse by the water
As I layback and exhale, I can hear the sounds of little waves lapping over the stone beach, each a tiny voice inspired by a cool evening breeze to spill their stories over tiny cliffs or wrinkled rock. Each swell part of a conversation that’s been told since the last ice age, far longer than I’ve been there. But on these evenings as pine torn moon glow offers a spotlit commentary on the tiny ripples of water, I can just barely make out the flickering remembrances of a beach fire, a single lazy line of smoke still weaving upwards and out of sight. Sometimes in late evenings when all others have gone to sleep, I would climb down from the top bunk, pull a sweatshirt over top and shimmy my windblown hair into the recesses of the oversized hood. The lower bunk was filled with lifejackets, floating foam noodles, towels and my duffle bag suitcase too. At my hip, a hastily installed sink jutted out and threatened to bruise to any unfocused occupants in the tiny space. The rest of the family would stay up in the main cabin but I would insist on staying down in this little shack by the water. I slipped out the screen door and out into the deck. Facing west over the lake, I could no longer see signs of a mosaic sunset painting that had been cast on this sky hours earlier, only brave stars peering out to radiate their gentle message to the universe. Descending the ten wooden steps from the deck to the stone beach, the darkness of the evening wrapped me up and the breeze that spoke so gently through the window of the bunkhouse now crowds its way through the fibers of my clothing and brushes past my skin like we are strangers. I plod along the rock beach, seeking solid ground along the stones until I can stand firmly on a large one and look out over the water. The half moon offers a pale gray hue and seems to hum like a singing bowl, reverberating a glimmering sheen over the landscape. I am now a full participant in the evening’s discussion. The breeze rushes from the far, far horizon, across the open expanse of the lake and sweeps up my body, into my nose. My chest fills with air. Louder now up close, the lake’s complex symphony chugs through pockets in rocks, crashes over stone shelves and throws itself out onto the smooth surfaces. Then, when the lake has pushed out the farthest reaching remark, my eyelids fall shut. Everything pauses for a moment, tension, yet complete peace. A smile is born and I exhale. Rushing now, the lake claws back the messy water, siphoning the dark liquid inward through crags and gaps. The wind pushes away this time, dancing up through needled branches and escaping around the corner of the rock shelf. Feeling complete, I take one last look at the lake and turn to wonder back across the rock beach, up the wooden staircase, across the deck and back into the tiny shed. I climb the bunk and nestle into my sleeping bag. With my head on the pillow, a low rumble of thunder in the distance mumbles one last sleepy thought before the night overcomes me and drift away in sleep. This story was written about a temporary home. A fleeting place to stay in the summer that I would visit year after year. Although I never received mail here, this place marks an emotional and spiritual home for me.