I'm getting tossed around at a buoy in Sausalito. It's a very nice place, but windy.
I've noticed a ghost of man who takes his little dog ashore every so often. The outboard makes a dark crunching sound. I will turn my head and see this man who sits perfectly still in his dingy; a white silky hair, a thin white face. The dog is in front of him, with its doggy affection. It seems like they're looking deep into each other’s eyes. Like lovers, I would say, or maybe as the two only sane creatures left on earth.
Yesterday I waved my hand as they passed. The ghost turned around for some chitchat. It's the kind of lone rider who you might think has an interesting story to tell. A life full of twist and turns. But then he starts to speak and everybody loose interest. He can't relate to other people in any meaningful way.
There's more to it, though. The man spoke about our neighbors in the anchorage. It's bitterness in his voice. "You’re dead in the centre of meth-heads", he said. True, I've noticed some characters around. But I'm a bit naive when it comes to drugs and addicts. "You better lock up your dingy, the oars. They'll steal everything." I had a feeling that he spoke partly of himself, given the ghostly face.
Kids on drugs are in for an early death, but the thing is; these addicts are way older than me. They're survivors from the sixties. Sausalito is one of the few places where the legacy from the hippies is still around.
He changed subject to the weather. Not in a trivial way, but as a threat. He started to speak at length about the El Nino weather system. "It messes up my work," he concluded. I guess this is the place where a normal following-up question would be something like 'what do you do', but I held my tongue.
Later I've come to regret this. I'm still pondering about it.