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<br>  <br>  I have sea fever. Not to be in it, or on it—just to be beside it and near it. 

I long for my Florida Gulf beach house, steps from the ocean and the lonely clouds and the sky.

I hear waves crashing and see the green swell rising.

I watch a kite that broke its tether being swept up to the clouds and then far out to sea… and for all I know, it’s still sailing free, wild with the wind and sky.

<br>  <br>  I’m a New York city detective and when I fly south, I take my young men’s ghosts with me—the ones I’ve killed whose faces still haunt me. I leave behind the foul streets and quiet menace of gangs and sit on my beach with a glass of wine. I watch the sun set with all the colors of a bruise and start to slowly heal.

And then Jordan comes to me. She’s my love who always returns and I want to be with her, except, she’s dead.

It started years ago, one October day. I walked to The Sandbar Restaurant, bought lunch and sat sipping ale and enjoying the breeze. 

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<br>  <br>  “You like it here, don’t you?”

I turned back from gazing at the waves and looked into the eyes of the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was wearing a red polka dot dress and the sun was backlighting her honey hair. She had freckles and soft brown eyes and I must have looked a fool—I just stared.

“You just like watching—or, do you talk?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—you’re right—I do like it here and as you can see, end up off somewhere lost in my thoughts.”

“Kinda like a brown stare, huh? The sea will do that to you.”

<br>  <br>  I was thinking more about she was doing to me—I could have stared at her forever and never have gotten tired.

“Are you from around here?” 

She nodded and pointed back up the beach in the direction of my house. “I often hang out here. I like the calm.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the bar, the beach or the area around my house, but I already had come across as dumb and figured at this point, less was more.

<br>  <br>  Suddenly, she got up. 

“Are you leaving?” I asked, disappointed she was going so soon.

“I was heading back up the beach, but when I saw you, I couldn’t resist stopping to chat—you seem to love this place as much as me.”

“I do love it—By the way, do you mind if I walk back with you?”

She held out a freckled arm and took my hand in hers. “I’d like that. C’mon.”

<br>  <br>  She was as simple and free as a child. There was a shy innocence about her and just being with her filled me with joy.

“Oh, I’m Tom—Tom Cameron.”

“I’m Jordan Logan.”

“Are you down here with family?”

She shook her head. “Nope, just by myself. I’m very independent, I’m told—but I’ve always been that way.”  

“Are you staying in a hotel?”

“No, I stay a little further up the beach from you.”

<br>  <br>  I tried to picture where she lived, but honestly, I had never gone up the beach in that direction. I was drawn to the bar and the fisherman’s wharf beyond—and other than that, I’d drive to Sarasota if I were bored and spend the day there.

 I guess I was like her—independent—maybe even a loner.

“I saw you sitting watching the sunset the other night.”

“You did?”

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<br>  <br>  “I didn’t want to bother you. Watching sunsets are sacred moments—they’re not to be interrupted.”

“They could be shared,” I smiled.

“Only with a good friend or someone you love—someone you can be quiet with.”

“Amen,” I said quietly.

“You understand then? Good. I thought you were sensitive.”

<br>  <br>  I gave a cynical chuckle. “That’s not exactly part of my job description.”

“No? What do you do?”

“I’m a New York police detective.”

“You’re very young,” she frowned.

“I’m thirty-two.”

“You look a lot younger.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“What about you?”

“I’m a student—but I’m not in school now.”

“Taking some time off?”

She smiled. “You could say that.”

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<br>  <br>  We were at my summerhouse now.

 “Say, could you come in for a drink?”

Again, the smile. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Actually, I thought it’d be a very good idea. I tried not to show my disappointment.

“Oh well, another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps. I’d better go. I’ll see you around.”

“Nice meeting you, Jordan.”

She turned and smiled and put one hand up to steady the brown straw hat she wore. “Nice meeting you too, Tom.”

<br>  <br>  I watched her walk slowly up the beach and felt an aching for her deep in my heart. It was weird—we had just met, but I felt drawn to her by some irresistible force.

I could do nothing the rest of the day. I had to be outside—couldn’t stay in the house. I had to watch the clouds and the sky and the long white waves rolling endlessly to the shore.

When I blinked or closed my eyes, I saw her lovely face. When the wind sighed in the trees, I heard her voice. *Tom*. The way she said my name echoed through my brain. I was infatuated, enamored, obsessed. I needed her.

<br>  <br>  The next day it rained. I was disconsolate, but I walked the beach anyway and allowed the rain to soak me to the skin. I went to the Sandbar and sat at a window seat, staring at the gray and white billows and the pewter swell.  The beach was brown and covered with seaweed—a lone heron stood solitary in the shallows—an image of my interior landscape.

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<br>  <br>  Back at the summerhouse, the rain splattered the window and the fire bubbled in the grate. I tried to imagine her face and conjure her likeness, but could not. 

Why didn’t I walk her home?

<br>  <br>  The following day I went to Sarasota on business and didn’t return until just past two. Hurriedly, I changed into a t-shirt and cargo pants, rolled to the knees, and ran down the beach to the Sandbar and sat at my usual table.

It took me an hour, before I allowed the sun to soothe me and my body to relax. My thoughts kept returning to the girl and I was consumed with a mixture of hope and fear—hope she’d show up and fear she wouldn’t.

The waiting was intolerable. Alfred Hitchcock once said, suspense came not in action, but anticipation—I now understood what he meant.

Gulls were crying and circling in the distance and a young boy was practicing in the shallows with a skim board.

<br>  <br>  “You came back,” said a girl’s voice from behind me.

My heart leapt out of my chest. “Jordan!”

I turned and looked into the face of the young waitress.

“No, Michelle,” she said sadly. “Sorry to bother you, but you left your sunnies yesterday.” 

She had a slight Australian accent.

“Oh, thank you,” I sighed, taking the sunglasses.

“Were you expecting someone?”

“A young girl I met—perhaps, you know her—Jordan Logan?”

The girl’s face fell and she looked devastated. She turned and hurried away, tears streaming down her face.

I felt completely helpless. I was at a loss as to how I offended her. I waited, but she didn’t return.

<br>  <br>  I walked down the beach toward my house and then changed my mind and sat down amid some dunes set back from the beach. 

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<br>  <br>  As I was trying to come to terms with what occurred, I saw the young waitress walking by, her work shift evidently over. I ran and caught up with her.

“Michelle—I’m sorry—I don’t know what I said to upset you. Are you all right?”

Her face was still puffy and her eyes swollen.

“Please, leave me alone.”

Ordinarily, I would have, but something snapped inside me. Instead, I reached out and grabbed her hand.

<br>  <br>  “Why did you burst into tears when I mentioned Jordan’s name?”

“Jordan was my friend—she died last year in a surfing accident.”

“Maybe we’re not talking about the same woman.”

She reached into her wallet and pulled out a photo. It was Jordan Logan. The shock hit me with such force that my knees gave out and I sunk to the sand.


<br>  <br>  Michelle and I have since become good friends—she’s a lot like Jordan in ways. Neither of us can explain what happened to me. 

I get what I call thunderbolts and I start to shake when I think about that day.

I keep returning to the summerhouse each October and each time I do, I catch a glimpse of Jordan—sometimes walking along the beach, sometimes sitting outside my house, staring at the waves.

It’s always the same—I approach and she leaves—fades right away.

<br>  <br>  Michelle and I are getting closer though, each time I return—who knows? Maybe that was Jordan’s plan all along.

Sometimes I think she’s like that kite I lost—sailing free, wild with the wind and sky.

Maybe she likes it here and keeps coming back, just like me.

Or maybe she’s lonely too, and wants Michelle and I to comfort each other.

Then again, we might all just continue on, remembering, and growing old by the sea.

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<br>  <br>  <center>  © 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.</center>

<br>  <br>  <center>Image credits: https://goo.gl/images/CiddZq, https://goo.gl/images/0SyAyK, 
and pics by @countrygirl </center>