Breakers Read Online Free Page A
Author: Edward W. Robertson
fun."
"You look like you already are," he said, voice rattling as she shook him.
"We should go live on the beach this weekend. I mean with tents and vodka-canteens and public urination."
"All of that is illegal."
"Who cares?" She released him, tugged open the crumbling curtain that overlooked their wild backyard, the lemon trees and wildflowers and the fifty-foot magnolia tree with its red, corn-cobby buds. "If we have to leave soon, why not have some fun? Enjoy the damn place? This is Southern California. Let's love it while we can."
He had to smile. "Of all the things you have to choose from, you want to go camping three blocks from your house?"
She put up her dukes, hopped forward, and tapped him in the gut with a fist. "It's free, isn't it?"
He couldn't argue with that. In between emailing his resume around and clipping coupons, he went down to the basement, a half-finished space cluttered to the point of unnavigability by books, tools, jars of screws, camera lenses and developing fluid, and half-painted, rough-sawn wood scraps from his dad's old projects. Decades ago, before his birth when they too had been too poor to do much else, his parents had been campers. Between two sawhorses and beneath a layer of dust thick enough to write your name in, Raymond dug up a tent, metal stakes, some tarps, canteens, and a tackle box that still smelled like bait, plasticky and fishy.
Saturday morning, they drove to the beach. He left most of the gear in the trunk until dark. They made up some rules: no leaving the beach unless a) the bathrooms were closed or b) to stow the tent in the mornings. When smoking weed, make sure no one could see the fire. Bag up all their trash. And absolutely no talk of money.
The sun bounced off the water and the sand; within an hour, Raymond had to break the first rule to go buy stronger sunscreen. It was late March and he knew the water in the bay had carried down the coast from Alaska, but he waded to his knees, coaxing Mia out into the curling surf until the soles of their feet went numb. They combed for shells, smelling salt and kelp and warm sand. On the rocks at the south end of the bay, where the mansions of Palos Verdes clung to the cliffs on eighty-foot stilts, small black flies swarmed in thousands over brown mats of drying kelp. He overturned stones, searching for crabs.
"I've been down here two dozen times and I've never seen a single fish," he said. "How hard can it be to find a fish in an ocean ?"
"Maybe they just don't like you," she smiled. They'd been swigging warm vodka from a metal flask.
"Then they must know something you don't."
"Or vice versa. I've seen you naked."
"Maybe we should educate them."
After midnight, drunk and grinning, they carried two towels down to the tideline, laid one beneath them and one over them, and made love amidst the sand, the moon, the waves. Once they finished and Raymond had caught his breath, he popped up, naked, and faced the sea.
"Get a good look, fish. One night only." He plopped down on the towels, pawing in the moonlight for his underwear. "Why can't I shake the feeling this is a trial run for how we'll be living a few weeks from now?"
She waggled a finger in his face. "No money-talk, remember?"
"Who said anything about money? I'm talking about bindles and cans of beans."
"We'll have to memorize the train schedules."
"I think a barrel with two straps would look very flattering on you."
"We can't go homeless when we have a home, can we? Maybe we can get a thing. A lien."
"No money talk!" She sprung from the sand, a pale flash speckled with the darker spots of her nipples, belly button, and the gap between her legs, and tackled him on his back, smushing a towel into his face. "Gonna follow the rules? Or do I have to smother you?"
They woke sticky-mouthed and sunburnt, hungry and hungover. Between a couple covert puffs, packing the tent in the trunk, and a walk through the not-quite-cold morning, the fog lifted from their heads,
"You look like you already are," he said, voice rattling as she shook him.
"We should go live on the beach this weekend. I mean with tents and vodka-canteens and public urination."
"All of that is illegal."
"Who cares?" She released him, tugged open the crumbling curtain that overlooked their wild backyard, the lemon trees and wildflowers and the fifty-foot magnolia tree with its red, corn-cobby buds. "If we have to leave soon, why not have some fun? Enjoy the damn place? This is Southern California. Let's love it while we can."
He had to smile. "Of all the things you have to choose from, you want to go camping three blocks from your house?"
She put up her dukes, hopped forward, and tapped him in the gut with a fist. "It's free, isn't it?"
He couldn't argue with that. In between emailing his resume around and clipping coupons, he went down to the basement, a half-finished space cluttered to the point of unnavigability by books, tools, jars of screws, camera lenses and developing fluid, and half-painted, rough-sawn wood scraps from his dad's old projects. Decades ago, before his birth when they too had been too poor to do much else, his parents had been campers. Between two sawhorses and beneath a layer of dust thick enough to write your name in, Raymond dug up a tent, metal stakes, some tarps, canteens, and a tackle box that still smelled like bait, plasticky and fishy.
Saturday morning, they drove to the beach. He left most of the gear in the trunk until dark. They made up some rules: no leaving the beach unless a) the bathrooms were closed or b) to stow the tent in the mornings. When smoking weed, make sure no one could see the fire. Bag up all their trash. And absolutely no talk of money.
The sun bounced off the water and the sand; within an hour, Raymond had to break the first rule to go buy stronger sunscreen. It was late March and he knew the water in the bay had carried down the coast from Alaska, but he waded to his knees, coaxing Mia out into the curling surf until the soles of their feet went numb. They combed for shells, smelling salt and kelp and warm sand. On the rocks at the south end of the bay, where the mansions of Palos Verdes clung to the cliffs on eighty-foot stilts, small black flies swarmed in thousands over brown mats of drying kelp. He overturned stones, searching for crabs.
"I've been down here two dozen times and I've never seen a single fish," he said. "How hard can it be to find a fish in an ocean ?"
"Maybe they just don't like you," she smiled. They'd been swigging warm vodka from a metal flask.
"Then they must know something you don't."
"Or vice versa. I've seen you naked."
"Maybe we should educate them."
After midnight, drunk and grinning, they carried two towels down to the tideline, laid one beneath them and one over them, and made love amidst the sand, the moon, the waves. Once they finished and Raymond had caught his breath, he popped up, naked, and faced the sea.
"Get a good look, fish. One night only." He plopped down on the towels, pawing in the moonlight for his underwear. "Why can't I shake the feeling this is a trial run for how we'll be living a few weeks from now?"
She waggled a finger in his face. "No money-talk, remember?"
"Who said anything about money? I'm talking about bindles and cans of beans."
"We'll have to memorize the train schedules."
"I think a barrel with two straps would look very flattering on you."
"We can't go homeless when we have a home, can we? Maybe we can get a thing. A lien."
"No money talk!" She sprung from the sand, a pale flash speckled with the darker spots of her nipples, belly button, and the gap between her legs, and tackled him on his back, smushing a towel into his face. "Gonna follow the rules? Or do I have to smother you?"
They woke sticky-mouthed and sunburnt, hungry and hungover. Between a couple covert puffs, packing the tent in the trunk, and a walk through the not-quite-cold morning, the fog lifted from their heads,
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