|
   |
+==~~~~~====~~~~====~~~~====~~~~=====~~~~=====~~~~====~~~~====~~~~====~~~~~==+
Southern Shore Temporary
Tue Sep 06, 1963 — Tue Sep 06 08:55:15 2016
*
The southern shore of Long Island is a very pretty place, dotted with expensive homes receding into less expensive ones. Shoreside communities cling to the sandy shore, their waterfront access jealously guarded behind jumbles of stones. Along the roadways are colourful small shops with ridiculous names, slowly entering the sleepy season after the summer's denouement. Road construction crews are out and about, and a birdwatching lookout is perilously impinged upon by the activity.
*
Labour Day has come and gone on a city turned into a marsh. The great skyscrapers and buildings have taken over the Hudson and East River estuaries but the swampy heat still stagnates over the concrete jungle built atop the natural landscape. Even holidayers returned reluctantly from their airy, breezy cottages in Kennebunkport or Bar Harbour and Mystic River suffer. Traffic jams on the highways are outstanding. Even Long Island, sleepy by comparison, is a haunt of misery.
Those last few days of good weather mean that a traffic crew is out making life miserable for everyone. The fellow controlling which cars get to move forward exalts in his power, and makes a point for women drivers in particular to suffer. The bus has simply given up, pulled off in front of a stop, disgorging miserable passengers onto the sidewalk.
The south shore of the island has its small quaint villages and exurbs that refuse to be called New York, and not all are rich. Open shops and cafes try to cater to the moneyed and the hungry. Several handwritten signs point would be guests towards an activity of some excitement: "1963 Trumpeter Swan Census." Pictures of swans abound. Swan banners, swan signs, swan pictures in the windows trumpet the excitement of volunteers trying to count a rare, beloved bird. In fact, a small white tent near a gas station hosts three volunteers with binoculars and t-shirts marked with, guess what, a black swan outline. They guide those who mean to join to the beach, though that means going through the construction jungle… If you dare!
*
It's days like this that make Tigra really miss San Francisco. Sure, tigers are tropical cats, so it's not like she's got a snow leopard pelt. And sure, she's actually in her human form at the moment, but it's all small consolation, compared to the cool air of San Francisco.
She walks along, wearing a broad brimmed straw hat, sunglasses, loose t-shirt and cotton shorts and sandals, sipping from a cold Coca-Cola as she watches some of the volunteers at work. She keeps a respectful distance, though. As mentioned, she's not en furred, but a predator's a predator, and sometimes animals get nervous.
*
The volunteers pounce on anyone who comes nearby. "Come and count the trumpeter swans on Lido Beach! You might be able to save the swans, and we'll give you lots of water and chance to relax!" They happily wave to anyone who comes by, offering up a brochure or a clipboard with a small pencil if someone agrees to participate. The road leads down to the pretty beach, down off Ocean Boulevard. The Atlantic rolls in there along the marshy stretch where the birds relax and wallow, the way the great flappy beasts like to do. Well, to be fair, most of them are seagulls and sandpipers, but who is going to ask?
*
Katie stomps her way off the bus, hauling a book bag crammed to the brim with old bits of machinary. Some people spend their holidays relaxing but for Katie it just means she can venture further afield for parts. Bliss! She takes a few shambling steps towards the nearest bit of shade and scowls at a volunteer. "I hate swans. They're just arrogant geese and you can't even eat them."
*
Further out where the water meets the sand in gentle, rolling swells, there sits a young woman upon a cluster of rocks. Rocky outcroppings aren't so common on the sandy beaches of Long Island, but this one is just large enough for her to sit there cross-legged with her back to the village beyond. Further up the way, above the seaweed, she has left her bag and towel, and a sundress for that matter. The young woman instead has a sarong and a bathing costume that would give conservative Midwesterners a nosebleed. Fox red hair in braids helps with dealing with the spray, but for all the world, Scarlett is meditating at the land's uttermost end until, say, Portugal or Morocco. Her hands rest upon her ankles, the lotus position comfortable enough. She's hard to hear at a distance, murmuring into the sea breeze, and whatever she's trying to do is apparently… ineffective, perhaps. Unless one considers the birds giving her a bit of a berth a win. No seagull dares mistake her for a source of French fries.
*
Greer makes her way down towards the beach, hoping the breeze will be cooler there, near the water. She shakes her head quietly at the offer of a clipboard to count birds. "I'm allergic," she says and moves on before it can be questioned. More that th ebrids would be alelrgic to her, but close enough. Another swig of her soda as she approaches the beach, looking around, and then doing a double-take at the apparently meditating woman. Wow, and Greer thought her 'work outfit' was daring.
*
The heat bubbles along the street, even if it's this close to the ocean. The volunteers look oddly at Katie, the eldest of them frowning. "The trumpeter swan is an important bird," she says, mild. "They are the largest birds in North America and they're so rare that finding any of them here is a landmark for science. New York University is helping sponsor this because the range could be rebuilt. They're the very icon of an American species going to the brink of extinct. " Her mouth tightens slightly and she gestures. "It's unprecedented for them to come this far east and south! Find one and you might end up with your photo taken by the Times and the Audubon Society!"
This, surely, is bliss for all bird watchers. The other volunteer, about 30, says, "We nearly swans off the earth, at least with this kind. So yeah."
*
Katie blinks a few times. "I don't think I could care any less if I tried," she assures earnestly. "But I wish you the best of luck." Despite barely having had time to settle in this bit of shade she hauls herself back to her feet and drags her back further from the bus. With each step something in the bag scrapes loudly against the ground and, being especially ladylike, she kicks up a ton of sand with each step.
*
Scarlett's cross-legged position makes the fact she's in a two-piece French suit a little less daring than it could be. Add also that her sarong ties off around her hip and she might not be a casualty of sight, but it's reasonable at least one person has mistaken her for a mermaid despite there being no such things. Atlantis has no right to complain. She holds out her hand and flicks her fingers upwards, and the wave shattering on the rocks sprays upwards. Drops hang suspended for a second longer than they should, and she frowns, her expression puckered with deep concentration. Then the drops splash back, and she exhales a breath. "You just couldn't teach me, no. Self-study my arse."
*
The birders give Katie a wave, then, letting her go back to hauling her catch wherever she plans to go. A dirty look is shot in her direction, anyways, and one of the women gives a rather soft, harsh sniff. "Well, I never. There's no need to be rude about it. She's got a sour spot."
The beachcombers aren't a large number of people, but several of them are gathered along the beach, staring with their binoculars at the waterline and clumps of grass that separate the beach from the roadway and the settled parts of Long Island. Birds shimmy about, more on the water and out to sea, wheeling around in hopes of finding something good to eat. The dust in the air thickens, a dash of sand thrown airborne.
*
"What sort of person cares about swans?" Katie mutters to herself once she is clear from the group. "Crazy people with too much time and not enough sense." She tuts to herself, then gives up and just sits on the sand where she is. "Almost as bad as people who visit the beach for /fun/."
*
ROLL: Katie +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 20
*
The air is thick with dust and sand, more so than it was up the beach. All that makes it fairly hard to breathe, and a bit to see, though the haze is heaviest near the water. And that rock, for that matter. It's enough that the grit probably irritates Katie's eyes and lungs.
*
Greer finishes up her soda and tips the bottle over to let the last drops drain out onto the sand, holding it in her hand like that for the moment. As she reaches the sand proper, she stops to remove her sandals, stepping out barefoot now, toes splaying slightly for traction. She's careful to keep away from the larger groups, which steers her a little towards singletons. "What's wrong with the beach for fun?" she asks Katie, being in earshot.
*
ROLL: Tigra +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 41
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 38
*
Sighing, Scarlett swivels carefully off the rock and then jumps down into the surging water. Liquid laps up to her thighs, and she flattens her sarong to her sides with her hands, trudging her way forward through the cresting waves. The tide is building up and the hazy dust in the air makes her sneeze. Braids swish and snap as she buries her face into the crook of her elbow. It's a ridiculously high-pitched noise. "Pardon me!" Half-blinded by the sting, the redhead wades back towards the shallows.
*
Katie digs her hand in her bag, pulls out a sheet of paper and holds it up to shield herself from the sun. "Everything," she replies, coughing and spitting. "Sun and sand mostly. It's burning hot and dusty. Not to mention poison jellyfish and various other horrible bits of wildlife."
*
The sound of the sneeze draws Greer's attention, and in sympathy perhaps, she finds she's having to fight back a sneeze also. "It's not…not…not that—" AH-CHOO "Augh, excuse me," she says apologetically. "Not that bad. Most of the time, anyway," she says, adjusting her hat against the blowing sand. "Not this is much of a beach, admittedly."
*
"Bless you." Another sneeze follows. "Excuse me!" The blend of apologies and gesundheits follows Scarlett all the way through the water until she reaches the shoreline. While she does, it's fairly apparent several new grooves have been cracked into the waterlogged sand some distance down, and an ominous gurgle might be heard.
A gurgle not from the tide along the sandy shore, but the kind that goes with a broken outflow pipe. A weird rattle follows and then a gush of storm water (read: off the road water, from the gutters water) comes barreling down through the pipe sticking out into the sea. Not far from any of the women, for that matter.
*
"Is that a sewage pipe? If so that's another tick for the 'beaches aren't great' column," Katie replies, tilting the paper to try shield herself from the dusty breeze as well as the sun. "I'm really more of a winter girl, so I probably won't ever be convinced that a trip to the beach is a good idea. Now if there was a fairground that I would approve of. Rides are fun, cotton candy delicious and food on a stick is the ultimate in convenience."
*
Greer tilts her head with a slight frown at the gurgle. "That doesn't sound good," she murmurs. "Oh, ugh, doesn't look good, either," she adds. "Yeah, pipes like that near the beach, that's not a pleasant thing," she says, moving a couple steps up the beach, away from the pipe, without thinking about it. "Achoo!" she says after another sneeze. "Gah, excuse me. So dusty today!"