04-11-19 The Island

When I first saw the small island, I was hovering just above the water. There was nothing unusual about the hovering. It was a dream after all, and in dreams you can hover.

There was a man standing on the edge of the beach waving his hand toward me. He was wearing an expensive black suit, clearly overdressed for the environment, and as he continued to beckon me, I approached him.

Once on solid ground, I proceeded to listen to this man as he matter of factly listed all of the features of this particular island and why I should like it. It was hard to focus on him because of the small boat that was moored just behind his shoulder in the shallow waters off the island. It seemed to be drifting away as he continued to chatter and point. Eventually he looked behind himself and saw it.

“That’s my boat. I anchored it right here,” he said with a slight irritation in his voice. He turned his attention back towards me, and yet the boat kept drifting. He glanced again to see it even further away, and while he tried to keep his calm demeanor, I knew he was seething with the thought of getting his expensive suit wet on his way back to his boat. “I anchored it right there!!” he exclaimed, and pointed to the shallow waters. But the boat continued to drift, and while he made a valiant effort at ignoring it, he was soon overcome with the necessity of getting to his boat. He stormed off cursing under his breath, leaving me alone on the empty beach.

I wasn’t alone long, for a moment later Tim was standing with me and I realized that we were on vacation. This private island was ours. I’m not sure what Tim did then, but I set to finding sharks teeth and as I collected them I shoved them into an open beer bottle I had found washed up on the shore. I was thrilled to find some that barely fit through the top of the bottle, and others I had to put in my pocket because they were so big.

And then as I dug through a cliff of hard sand my hand wrapped around something large. At first I thought it was a large tooth, but as my hand emerged from the sand it was holding a gun. Instinctively I knew it was a murder weapon and it was confirmed when two men started running across the beach to tackle me for the weapon. Tim was there now, and he was yelling at me to shoot them, so I steadied my hand and raised the gun. They screeched to a halt only a few feet away from me. My finger traced the trigger. They backed away, slowly, muttering threats about hunting me down when I least expected it. As they turned away, I lowered the gun, only to discover it was a flare gun and not a pistol.

The rest of my dream blurred into a hurried chase scene, us being endlessly pursued by the men that wanted the gun, and each time we evaded them at the very last moment.

When I finally came to, I felt I hadn’t slept at all, but the sun was shining and a new day had begun. If only my sleep had been quiet, I might have felt more rested, but dreams are strange bedfellows, and slumber is their domain.

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