A Night of Pondy Dreaming

An angry dusk settles into hesitant calm, placated by the matronly whisper of the night wind. We watch in silence as the streaks of fiery red disperse in the wake of gathering darkness. Our steady breathing matches the pulse of the waves, one with the intangible subterranean engine that sets the pace for the heave of our chests, the relentless salt water crash, and the winking innuendo of the stars above us. No theatre could be a more apt setting for the drama of tiny lights that unfolds before us.

We had often told each other that some day we would spend a night in wordless togetherness, watching the sea together. There was never much hope in that promise, but tonight, by chance, our playful covenant has been fulfilled. There is no romance here tonight, or any night, simply the unfettered oneness that old friends bring. And she is perhaps my oldest friend.

In the background we hear the primal din of our companions. They immerse themselves deeper in youthful decadence as the cloak of the night falls heavier upon us all. But we are oblivious to the invisible haze of smoky intoxication. Our liquor is the sea.

Soon, our silence has extended long into the night. The waves have turned into distant aural shells, like common words left bereft of their meaning from constant childish repetition. So we speak. We speak of God, and friends, and love, and music, and dissecting frogs. They are well worn topics, beaten into crude philosophy from the shapeless iron of our banter. But no one can see knowing smiles in the dark. So we talk and smile to ourselves, while the insistent waves try to get a word in. Eventually we tire of speaking, and as we drift back into silence, the waves continue their united monologue. We listen again.

Behind us, our friends are now silent, lulled into fitful dreams by the same waves that hold us hostage. They will wake with a crushing throb in their heads, regretting the night’s revelry and the bilious aftertaste of their adventures. But for us, there will be no waking, as we run the marathon of sleepless defiance hand in hand. We refuse to let any night wind’s lullaby shut our heavy lids, and as our eastward-facing amphitheater begins to brighten, we know that our sojourn is at an end. We rise with the sun, dust off our clothes, and turn our backs on the vastness of our watery, night-long companion. The play is over, the blazing curtain of morning closes the stage to view, and the promise is now complete.