Watermarks The Affair of Claire by David Ginn

I cut through the beach to save time even though the sand was bad for my boots. I don't know why I chose the dunes instead of Butler Street; maybe I wanted to share something with the sea and the stars before I marinated myself in ethanol. I was headed to the local all night beach bar to meet my cohort J.J to compare notes on the night's adventures. It had been a long Tuesday night and the wind was unsympathetic to my bleeding heart. I was in no mood to saunter and I trudged through the sand the best I could. Doc's Bar is an odd place to be in when you're 21 and its 2:30 in the morning. During the off-season, the clientele at that time of night is usually Vietnam vets that can't make their alimony. I received odd looks when I walked in the front door. I was the second smartly dressed youth to get those looks; the first was sitting at the comer table drinking a gin and tonic. It was J.J. I ordered a double scotch and joined him. He had apparently been waiting for me for some time judging by the three empty glasses and the littered ashtray. He was anxious for news of my evening. I lit a cigarette.

"What was her name?" J.J. asked.

"It doesn't matter; she lives in Boston and is leaving tomorrow 61, finished my drink in one fell swoop.

A week earlier, while I was visiting my mother in Atlanta, I received an email from J.J. It was a short mission briefing:

I received no additional information until that next Tuesday morning, seven days later.

At 9:30 a.m. Tuesday, I received another email from J.J. David, the Wellesley University Women's Ultimate Frisbee Team has rented a beach house on Tybee Island. One of them is an old friend of mine. They are here with about a dozen other teams from New England for a tournament, and tonight the entire league is having a party. 250 people. No cover, but one requirement--men wear Blue Boxers, women wear Pink Panties. I'll see you there. --J.J.

I normally do not care for large parties, but I had a good feeling about this one. Plus, I needed a subject for my Gonzo Journalism paper.

By 10:00 I was on Tybee en route to Butler Street. I was showered, shaved, and running fashionably late. The house was easy to find; it was the one with 75 drunk people standing out on the lawn. I pulled around the back looking for a place to park. Fortunately, I was still in my car when I saw the three cop cars turn their blues on behind me. They weren't after me though; they were there for the party. I decided it would be in my best interest to leave. I took the first left and ended up about two miles away in a parking lot for the beach. The house was down the beach. I could still see it in the distance; in fact, I could hear the party in the distance. I wasn't in the mood to deal with the police, but I was concerned about J.J. I flipped my collar up and crossed the dunes. The wind was blowing hard and salty and at times I had to close my eyes and bow my head to it. I walked towards the house. There was a small stairwell that connected the beach to the sidewalk of the house. A few people were milling around and smoking.

"Any trouble with the cops?" I asked.

"A little," responded a flashy dressed youth drinking a strange blue fluid.

"I'm here with a Wellesley girl," I lied. "Mind if I go find her?"

"Be our guest, but wear this." He grabbed my wrist and strapped on what looked like a hospital bracelet.

"We told the cops that we were checking IDs at the door and said that everyone old enough to drink gets a bracelet. I guess that was good enough for them because they haven't bothered us since." I congratulated them on their ingeniousness and started for the house.

There were people everywhere coming and going, smoking and talking, drinking and singing. I pushed my way to the front door. There, in the doorway was an attractive girl sitting at a small card table. She was talking to a few boys with Welcome Back Kotter-esk scruffy hair. I assumed she was there to check IDs, so I pulled mine out. I walked to the table. She gave me a curious look.

"You just get here honey?"

"Um, yeah. I'm here with a Wellesley."

"Drop your pants baby." I stared blankly at her.

"You have blue boxers on right?" She gave me a ruthless wink.

"Um, yeah." I was not prepared for this line of questioning.

"Then let's see them." I had no choice but to comply. Slowly, I undid my belt. Some drunk guy behind me started doing his version of 70's porno music. I let my pants fall. My boxers were silky shiny.

"Good man! Here's your blue punch." She handed me a cup filled with what looked like the blue fluid used to sanitize combs at the barbershop. It smelled like a cross between Blue Berry Kool-Aid and Mad Dog 20/20. I said thanks, pulled up my pants and walked into the house.

One of the things I love about J.J. is that he doesn't have to be drunk to run half naked through a house full of strangers. I tried to get his attention, but he was singing very loudly as he ran past me. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. A few were dancing; a few were performing unmanageable acts of public indecency, and a few were passed out on the hardwood floor. The air was thick and humid; I went outside for some air. I found a quiet little section of the lawn next to a tiki lamp and the wood paneled fence. For some stupid reason I took a large swig from my dixie cup of something. It was horrible. It tasted like flaming Tang and I spewed it out all over a lawn flamingo. I was bent over hacking and spitting when I saw her bare feet next to me. I looked up and I saw her laughing.

Her name was Claire and I won't go into too much detail about our meeting in this report (most of that information is for myself only). I will say this: she was beautiful. She was intelligent and elegant in her demeanor, and I fell for her like a fool. We had a wonderful night together talking and strolling down lamp lit streets. We spent most of the evening on a pier far from the party. I never got to speak to J.J. at the party because I never made it back there, but I did run into his Wellesley friend. I asked her to give him a message. I took out my pen and memo pad:

We were together for four hours that night. She had told me that she was going back to Boston in the morning. I honestly didn't take that well. We reluctantly parted. Our goodbye was short and to the point, like ripping off a bandaid. We kept our dignity and virtue and only swapped emails and shook hands. She would later tell me how hard it was for her to not take me back to the beach house to stay the night. It wasn't all that easy for me wither. We parted and my head raced with thoughts of Claire and that I would never see her again. I had no idea that that would be far from the last time I would see her. I had no way of knowing what had started. The Affair of Claire--the strange and enticing romance is what had spawned from that night. I decided to walk down the beach and meet Julian at Doc's bar. I still don't know why I chose the beach instead of Butler Street.

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