Beach Patrol

The dark is nothing. It fills up the night and then it’s done.

He tours the loops, inspects the showers and restrooms, the front gate. He parks off the beaver flow and watches the road. He remembers the night he staked out a campsite.

The public access West Beach needs watching. Tonight they showed Laurel and Hardy against the wall of the bathhouse. Anybody can park outside and walk in. He dreads those moments when he hates thinking about what he might find on that beach. When he finds kids he asks what site they are staying at. He says, You can’t be on this beach at night. He says, Tell me what site you’re staying at and I can give you a ride.

He knows local kids. He knows the difference.

He takes the truck through the loops. Nothing ever happens in the first loop. There’s a fire in the second loop, at Site 42. The couple at the stone hearth turn to watch him pass. He skips Loop Three and goes up to Four, to the horse barn, parking along the fence. He looks at the outline of the low mountains against the night, listening to the horses. He doesn’t inspect the barn. Personal property is none of his business

The road circles around the corral in a lane between the fence and the pines. The truck lights open the trailhead openings in the trees. He drives off the flats down to Loop Three, and parks behind the beach house above the East Beach. He knows the road. He doesn’t flick on the flashlight. The road is pavement downhill, and when it turns soft he knows he is on the beach.

People think they are quiet, but out on the lake any movement, any whisper, carries.

They have no idea how it carries.

They don’t even know.

It’s cold, he hears the woman say.

Not so cold, he hears the man say.

Small voices, skimming over the water, running up the beach to him.

Treading water. They think they are stealthy.

He finds the two little piles of clothing. He doesn’t need the flashlight. One. Two. His. Hers.

He listens.

I told you, the man says.

Told me what? the woman says.
I told you.

Hey.

Hey what?

Hey.

He finds the sound. He puts the flashlight on it. On two heads on the water. His. Hers.

The look. The look is everything.

Good evening, he says.

Hello, the woman says. A little voice. A girl’s voice. They find that girl when the flashlight comes on.

You folks know there’s no swimming after dark? he says.

We didn’t know, the man says.

We didn’t know, the girl says.

It’s better than deer. It’s better than anything else. They have no place to go. They tread water. They squint. They have no have place to go.

They tread water.

Do you mind turning that off? the man says.

You’ll have to come out, he says.

Could you turn off the light first?

He takes if off them, plays it on the water, the floats, the guard chair, against the trees. He flicks it off.

Water moving. They have no idea how everything carries. Over the water.

Hey, the man says.

What? he says.

Do you mind leaving? Do you mind not standing there when we come out?

You coming out?

We’re coming out.

All right.

He starts up the hill. Off the sand, onto the pavement. He hears them walking through water.

On the pavement: shoe soles on pavement, grinding sand into the asphalt. He keeps his promise, he keeps walking.

Water dripping, feet sloshing. The small voices. Going up the beach to the beach house, into the trees. They have no idea.