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To you, the supposed Son of the Sea,
I truly hope this ends up finding you, this little piece of my thanks; if not, well… let’s not think about that possibility.
You may not have saved me in the literal sense, but I appreciated the company you granted, however short it was. In fact, I already know that moment will follow me till I’m old. Experiences like that aren’t so easily forgotten when someone’s life is so ordinary.
I find myself wanting to go back sometimes and relive every second of our encounter, or even attempting to chance for another. You said that couldn't happen. You even laughed when I pointed out your circumstances were similar to those of Calypso on Ogygia (and yes, I looked up the island’s name). Perhaps the situation is not as you think, because Calypso was always fated to remember those who left her, and the heroes, don’t they tend to forget? I’m not trying to accuse you. You’re you after all.
I still remember when I first took that photo of you after some great eloquence and begging on my part (hope my absence has finally dulled that massive ego, but at the same time, I hope you remain unchanged). It was a candid shot. I had just told you something ridiculous, and I grabbed your camera. You looked ethereal. Quite annoying how you looked so good on such a dreary day.
The lens immortalized you in full. The gray of the misty shore gilded you as the darling of the photo. Your features were prominent—rose-tinted cheeks from the cold, a shallow dimple from the pull of a smile at the corner of your lips. And your hair, laden with the sea's breath, sat upon your head like a drooping bramble crown—majestic and wild. To top it off, your sage green jumper. It held the comforts I never knew I needed (I tried to look for my own, but nothing felt right).
Okay, sorry for being so poetic, but I did promise to describe you in that Homeric way.
And I apologize for meeting you in such a way, the sand doesn’t do anyone any favours, unfortunately; paired with the cliff-side winds, perhaps napping there wasn’t the best spot. Though I really don’t know how the seaweed wound up around my ankle like that. I honestly thought it was something you did at first. You were, after all, on the younger side and had the features of a rogue… if pranksters had rosy cheeks and dimples when they smile. Actually, maybe Hermes is like that? I wish you could tell me.
Anyway, you did end up stealing something that day, regardless of whether it was a prank or not. I think you’re aware, at least I like to think so. You said something about fate and distance, right? And I’d rather not turn into a tree or flower if what you told me is true. So, I have to thank you again for looking out for me. Though… never mind.
How are you doing, wherever or whenever you find this? There are plenty of shorelines and forests just on that island alone. I highly doubt you want to stay on that hidden inlet for long. Save anybody new? Seen sights you haven’t seen? Or maybe you discovered a new way the sun rises that you like? Anything..?
As much as I want to listen to you tell your stories again, it would be unwise to leave my return address on a piece of paper I have no idea whether or not you’d even receive. And before you even roll your eyes at me for even entertaining the thought, I only did so after trying those mystical ways of messaging. Ha! I could practically see the surprise on your face as I write this. But now you’re probably laughing at the idea of me fumbling around with a gold coin and trying to make a rainbow with the hose to try to contact you.
In my defence, sir, YOU brought up the half-truths in Percy Jackson. Writing this letter was a last resort—my hand and wrist ache, this is almost archaic, you know. Get with the times! Do godlings even use WiFi? I know Doctor Strange didn’t mind using it, and he was a magician!
Anyway, call this my letter in a bottle; ignore the fact you probably found this without the latter. If it was meant to be… consider it fate :)
You’re probably wondering why a letter of thanks and small reminisce is so long. Well, if you find everything intact and as I left it, I came to return the memories. I’ve studied every Polaroid, engraved those images in my mind, and written my thoughts on the back. Consider this, and them, a final farewell. I’m but a mortal. I will forever be thankful for being able to leave you with a piece of my heart, whether or not you intentionally stole it. I love you. I miss you, but meet you. I hope you are well.
You told me that Cupid likes to play with two arrows: one of gold and one of lead. I fear I know where those arrows landed. You are unforgettable, “Tertel”.
Every sunrise is paired with a sunset,
“Idiot Who Fell Asleep in the Sand”
There were four photos, all of which Tertel remembered allowing them to take and keep. And an extra. It wasn’t a Polaroid like the rest.
The first one was a profile of himself, exactly as they described in the letter.
He wasn’t looking at the camera. His head was tilted down as if he was trying to hide the laughter, but the rising corner of his mouth didn’t hide anything at all. He looked downright relaxed.
Tertel smiled lightly as he looked over the photo, remembering exactly what had transpired moments before.
“To describe you as anything less than what Homer would say in his tales would be so misleading. Don’t you think?”
“But I’m not a god! I swear!” Tertel held up his hands in surrender, a toothy grin on his face, while his shoulders shook as he laughed.
The other person rolled their eyes and replied sarcastically. “Still denying it even after the winds died down after I complained how cold it was. Sure, dude, and I totally washed up on shore in dry clothes.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at their blunt honesty. Only then did he hear the snap of the camera.
The little quip that followed his humble denial brought a subtle warmth; he chuckled at the memory. Tertel flipped the Polaroid over. On the back, written in small semi-cursive print, blue ink pressed deep into the Polaroid:
Your most human moment. The moment I knew this was bound to end.
He hadn’t realized how his hand had crept up to his face, rubbing against the familiar jaw. It felt strange. It was him, yet… he didn’t dare finish the thought.
The second photo was a pair of feet buried in the sand, the hems of two pairs of trousers folded just enough to avoid the sand, but apparently not enough to stay dry.
Despite such a stupid picture, the setting sun beyond the horizon made the sand look like gold. Both of their ankles barely showed, half-hidden by the sand and half-covered by the folds of their trousers—helplessly wet and rolled up just enough. A stray piece of seaweed now lazily wove between both their ankles like a loose ribbon.
Tertel remembered this moment and chuckled to himself.
The idiot was afraid of sea lice, yet, because of the setting sun, insisted they take the photo anyway. Almost immediately after, the sand went flying as they almost tripped running up to the nearby rocks, complaining about how there was nothing beautiful about small invertebrates tickling your feet and damp clothes. He almost fell back in laughter at their reasoning, but followed them nonetheless.
He turned the Polaroid around:
Who knew gods wore baggy jeans?
p.s. it’s unfair how the sand doesn’t bother you
There was a drawing of a fuming sand louse. He faintly smiled, tracing over the doodle with a finger.
The third photo was an attempted selfie. Attempted being the key descriptor, as the other subject of the photo, apart from himself, was basically cut off.
They were both lying down, shoulders incomparably close for two strangers who’d just met, their heads leaning towards the other, and the camera above them was handled in a way that would send his cortisol levels spiking if he were put through that torment again. Still, he was smiling—and as the wisps of memory played themselves out behind his eyes, he, too, smiled.
His thumb hovered over the edge of the Polaroid, the pad resting over the sharp corner where their face would’ve been.
“Come on! We have to take at least one picture together. Every good hangout needs its memories well preserved!” Their voice was positively vibrating with life despite their state of dress. They didn’t wear any over-shirt, just a simple white shirt, shivering under it all the while.
Tertel rolled his eyes and teased, bumping his shoulders against theirs. “Yeah? And you think you can take a selfie with a film camera?”
“As you said, if fate allows it, the photo will be perfect!” They fell back onto the sand with a chuckle. “Hurry! Once the sun sets, we won’t be able to get this kind of lighting.”
“Since when did you know anything about lighting?” He sighed exaggeratedly and shrugged as he lay down shoulder to shoulder with them, yet his smile never faded. The camera was above them, held awkwardly in a way that definitely wouldn’t turn into a good photo, but part of him was wistful that it would.
“Cheese! Hey—” SNAP!
The camera took the photo amidst fits of laughter.
His hair was a mess across his forehead, and his cheeks were so red he could’ve been accused of blushing, but his eyes, which should’ve been looking straight into the camera, were tilted in the same direction as his head: towards the other person. As he had imagined, the photo itself was lopsided, cutting off their own head. Only their lower jaw was showing, their mouth half-open in laughter. An arm cut across their chest as they attempted to push him away.
Tertel turned the Polaroid around:
A treasure forever preserved on paper; a smiling you! Sorry it was messed up, your fault rlly
He took a deep breath, trying to settle the uncomfortable feeling in his chest, and laid the photo down with the other two. He glanced at it once more before moving on to the fourth Polaroid.
The fourth photo was unrecognizable at first, until Tertel realized it was a close-up. A photo he himself had taken at their request. Something he’d intended to do at the time, even if they didn’t ask.
“So, is it true?” They asked, holding the oversized shell in front of them with both hands.
“What?”
“That whatever you whisper into the shell will come true in the future.”
Tertel looked at them with confusion written all over his face. “Now, where did you hear that?”
They shrugged, “SpongeBob.”
They both remained silent, staring at the conch with different thoughts, but with equal attention. The waves continued to lap up and retreat from the shore in gentle undulations.
Tertel looked at them as he leaned back on his hands. His jumper had come off, an offering to keep them warm, now resting over them like a makeshift cloak, its sleeves wrapped around their neck. He almost wished they weren’t at the beach. Almost.
“I’m gonna try it.” They turned to him with a smile.
He cocked his eyebrow. “You’re actually gonna try and make a wish?”
“Why not? And who knows, I don’t think anybody has made a wish into a conch shell in front of a sea god before.” They winked at him. “Maybe something different will happen.”
Maybe… Tertel reached for the camera that lay on the sand between them.
“Can you actually take a photo? Maybe this will be a historic moment!” They raised the conch up into the air, the wind whistling through its spiral, making a slight hum. Their eyes brightened. “See! Even the wind agrees!”
He laughed as he brought the viewfinder over his eyes. If not the conch, maybe this photo will suffice.
The jumper covered their hunched-over back like a layer of moss, yet they blended easily with it, as if it was meant to be there to begin with. The giant conch shell, with its layered stripes of peach, pink, and orange, covered most of their profile. Only the uplifted curve of the corner of their mouth was visible.
It was a silly photo.
Tertel’s smile slowly faded. He couldn’t recall what they wished for. Did they even tell him? He turned to the back of the Polaroid.
No note. Only a winky face ;)
He held the Polaroid in his hands, mesmerized and distraught. It held more questions than memories. Although he was the one who allowed them to take this photo, why didn’t they write anything like they did the others?
The dull ache in his chest had spread to a growing discomfort in his stomach. This shouldn’t be happening. He let out a shaky sigh, dropping the Polaroid onto the others, this time on its front. The winky face stared back at him in blue ink.
Tertel took the final photo, which was made of proper photo paper, 4×6" in size. He stared at it with furrowed brows, because he was sure they didn’t have a camera that day. Especially when they left. When they asked him for the memories.
It was a photo of the little beach he had found them in from a higher vantage point. The trees that surrounded the cove from the mountains looked the same, only—Tertel’s eyes narrowed. This was a different day.
It was the same beach; perhaps they returned looking for him or to reminisce. His aching heart could not bear the thought that it would be for anything else. He scanned the photo again, looking for anything, a sign of them, a sign for him, something that would give him an answer to why they included this with the letter. Unfortunately, there was nothing.
It was the small inlet, in its entirety, from a vantage point he’d never been to. It never felt so empty. The mist was still there, hovering over the ocean, stained a slight gold. They had probably returned around a similar time, hoping for another chance encounter. There was nobody on the sands this time. Only driftwood and seaweed contrasted against the sand.
Tertel’s fingers felt the back of the photo as he scanned it again, trying to gauge if anything was written on the back. It was only now that he realized his fingers were shaking and that there was a long-lost sense of trepidation as he did so.
There! He felt the shallow divot of a letter and immediately flipped the photo over. The familiar blue ink greeted him, reminding him of the waters that crashed onto the shore that day.
If you’re reading this, it means it’s the end. And I—
There was very heavy scribbling and crossed-out words following the I, mirroring his own erratic state.
I went back the following day. Hoping my wish came true, but you were right.
His fingers tensed, holding the photo tighter. Something was falling away.
So, this is my final attempt at saying goodbye to you for good. Maybe you’ve already forgotten me, because I don’t think I’m that memorable.
His jaw clenched as he read those sharp words.
But if you do remember. Maybe you should do something about those sea conches, they’re terrible at granting wishes, but… they did tell me your name, o’ wanderer of the shore.
It was lovely to meet you, Joel.
Tertel could almost hear the crashing of the waves of that evening, as their conversation at the beach headed to an end. He could no longer see the sun behind the horizon, only the afterglow of the quickly arriving twilight. The shadow of the other person who laughed with him on the beach was just that, a shape darker than the rest of the beach. Their white shirt no longer stood out from the rest of the beach, as everything about them started to blend with the dark.
He wanted to see them one more time.
“I think it’s time for me to go, unless you can pull some strings and ask the sun to linger a little longer.”
He remembered laughing at their comment, hiding how his hands clutched at the sand beside him, and for once letting the little grains get under his fingernails and dig into his skin. The sand did bother him. It bothered him that they slipped through his fingers and how easily they got lost.
“Here, your jumper back. I won’t be needing it in the car.”
He remembered how he insisted that they take it. How scalding and cold their fingers were when their hands inevitably brushed together, returning his clothes.
“It was nice getting to meet you!”
He remembered how he didn’t even get their name, and watching them fade up the steps as the winds whipped around him where he stood, the bright phone flashlight eventually vanished over the top after a quick wave. And it was over.
Tertel didn’t remember passing out. When he woke up, he was at the beach, familiarly lying on the sand, just like the way he’d found someone there once before. Seaweed wrapped around his ankle like a loose, knotted reminder. The setting sun dyed the ocean mist a pale yellow and painted the sand gold. And just on the shore, right where tides stopped their climb—a conch was half-buried in the sand.