Cannon Island – February 24, 2013
The last full moon is rising in the sky, a glowing ball of silver beyond the fog. I can’t see anything, just a hundred yards of hazy beach and waves slipping around the tip of Cannon Island and sliding up the sand.
They look far away, distant, twenty feet away and three below me when I close my eyes. I wake in the same fog, the world is pale white, but the moon is hidden. I watch the waves break against the sand, spilling up the beach, reaching out within ten feet. I look at the footprints left in the sand.
“I’m too high,” I say and close my eyes again.
I wake again. The fog is lifting now. It is thin and I can see the moon hanging above me like a thin disk of silver. I love the full moons. I wait for them. I count nights. I watch them grow into a full circle and beg them to stay as they slip away.
“One more day,” I always plead, but they never listen.
I stare up at this one and know it will be the last I see on this trip. It will whittle and crumble away like the last few hundred miles of water, piece by piece. I stare at it and feel sad. It is almost over and the moon knows. It tells me as it inches across the sky and says goodbye.
A wave crashes on the beach, slips up the sand and over my camp, erasing footprints that have lasted days, soaking my groundsheet and splashing my face. I jump to my feet and pull everything back, sliding away from the rising water, finding a new bit of sand to watch my last full moon pull in the tide.