I had come to Florida's Gulf coast desiring an elemental experience – a thunderstorm in my hand, as Claire once joked.
At first, I thought she might be that elemental I was seeking–someone primitive and basic as the wind and sea that would complete me, but I was wrong.
Our brief romance burnt out quickly and we settled for being friends and my existence returned to a familiar monotony.
And life could have gone on like that—an ex-priest artist living by the sea – only thirty and never married – a sequestered man who bought the weathered cottage on a whim and now lives there with a cat named Gizmo and a heron named Harry.
Yes, it could have gone on like that for eternity for all I knew—swearing off women, vowing to live for my art—shallow and shortsighted as all vows are, but the very next day it came undone.
“A hurricane’s coming, Richard,” Claire shouted, “We’re too close to the sea and need to go inland.”
“You go, I’m staying. If it gets bad I’ll take shelter in the old light house out on the point.”
“Are you crazy? They say that place is haunted, and I’m not sure those crumbling walls can withstand a storm surge.”
“I’ll be fine—we’ll be fine,” I reassured her, gesturing to Gizmo on the porch chair and Harry in the sand.
She just shook her head and handed me a phone number. “It’s my sister’s place in Sarasota—if you change your mind, you can always come—she owns a big bed and breakfast and it’s off season—lots of room.”
I smiled benignly, but she ignored my bravado and hugged me, burying her face in my shoulder and clinging tightly. When she eventually let go, she turned and walked away without looking back.
I shouted goodbye over the wind, but I don’t think she heard me.
That night was filled with shrieks and howling. I brought Harry inside and we all hunkered down.
The following day, the storm seemed to abate and I took my easel out to the painter’s shelter I built on the beach.
I love storms but they seldom ever last long enough for me to capture their essence – so I decided to take advantage of the hurricane to paint as I prefer—out in the elements.
I was awed by the power of the waves crashing and the branch lightning over the sea. I was so preoccupied I didn’t notice the girl who appeared beside me, until she spoke to me.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” she asked.
I turned and saw a bikini-clad girl in her late twenties.
“It is,” I said, more in reference to her than the storm. She had the face of a mermaid you see carved on the prow of a ship, and the same long, flowing tawny hair.
“Aren’t you afraid to be out in this weather?” she smiled.
“I might ask you the same thing. Do you live around here?”
“I do, and I’m not afraid of the elements—I like weather like this.”
I smiled back at her and offered my hand, “Richard Collins,” I said.
She held my hand and I felt a wave of longing sweep through me. I felt all the sadness of sea and sky in her touch.
And for a moment, hope surged once again inside me.
Perhaps I've found my elemental, I mused.
It was a prophetic thought.