I left him with his thoughts until he turned and looked in my direction. He announced the next spot would be the one I had memories of, Pouquott. On the way, we did not talk much, which is highly unusual for us. When I turned down the road to the cottage, I saw a younger me sitting in the back seat of a hot car next to my brother and sister. I was fidgety from the ride that seemed to last forever and excited, being so close to the destination I thought we'd never reach. I temporarily found my way back to the present and thought of how far we've all come. I fall into a moment right out of the movie Camelot in which King Arthur is remembering his younger self in the woods. his mind transported, looking at Merlin and his lessons from a child's perspective. As we reach the house, much like in the movie, I realize that that time is no longer; the wizard is just a tree and my thoughts are just memories.
I know the current owner of the cottage, but he was not there. He has put a lot of work into the place and it currently was being readied for siding. The many windows in the front that defined it in my young mind were gone. I know in my heart it looks better, but in my memories it looks different. In the basement of the cottage I met the grandfather who had died long before I was born, in his workshop I found remnants of a fisherman, a tinkerer and an inventor. Upstairs, I remember watching an old weird shaped black and white tv while playing cards with my nanny and her 'old' friends. I thought of the amazing gardens my grandfather set up in the back. I laugh at the remembrance of our cat, that came on the trip with us one year, running away from a forever pursuing folding chair that his leash was tied to. So many places in time that slipped into the recesses. Like them, it was time for me to move on.
Next I wanted to go to the beach of Pouquott that we used to walk to from the cottage. I remembered the steep, flat road. I learned for the first time that I had flat feet walking back to the cottage from the beach, as a young boy. I remembered the float that we used to swim out to; skipping stones with my brother and sister and spending what seemed like countless hours finding Indian inkwells(red clay that formed around stones. When the clay fell off the stone, it left a round indent.).
Arriving at the beach, a different scene greeted me.. What had been a small parking area was now an, at least, ten car lot. There were, "No Bathing", signs posted. Where there once was clear water and a tethered swimming platform, boats were buoyed. It had changed.
The quietness and emptiness that had escaped time itself, in my youth, had met a more modern time with ill effect.
We continued on to the second Pouquott beach, scarcely a stones throw away. There was still no parking there and we joked at the grammar of the signs. After a short while I had seen enough. Heading back to the car, I didn't want to look back.
My father proclaimed that the Port Jefferson Ferry was coming and urged me to wait, so he could watch it go by. He talked about the old single screw ferry, that had since been replaced, and the enjoyment of watching it struggle in rough waters. I walked one last time to the shores of Pouquott to snap a picture of the passing vessel.
As I read the name on the side, 'P.T. Barnum', a smile made it's way to my face. There was a lot of suckers born in the minutes that I watched that boat pass and ultimately life, "The Greatest Show on Earth", would make old fools of them all. Back at the car we decided to continue on to Port Jefferson.
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