There was a sign near the Lake Sonoma boat launch ramp, erected, no doubt, by concerned park rangers. It read: “Lake Sonoma Drownings This Year”. And the next line had one of those removable-amendable placards currently reading the single digit: “1”. And then it was followed with an earnest tag line: “Don’t Be Next!” 

I didn’t want to be next, but the only way to honestly guarantee that would be to just not do the IronMan altogether. And here I was taking my chances. And now I’d been warned.

Those bright red floating pylons extended clear out to a distance where you could barely make them out anymore. If you, in fact, survived the swim all the way out beyond the dock, curving out to the right and under the big bridge, and then stroked all the way to the marina on the opposite shore and around the two buoys, and then made it all the 1.2 miles back to the boat launch ramp… well, then you had to do it again. It seemed impossible, and yet here I saw a select few Ironmen out swimming it, for kicks, the day before the race, and I marveled at them. I really wasn’t sure I could do it, and by “do it” I mean, actually swim that far. I remembered how scared I was swimming that 500 meters, beyond the breakers, off the coast of Camp Pendleton a year ago, and the lifeguard on a paddleboard, eyeing me diligently, calling out with a serious voice: “ARE YOU OKAY?” I responded yes, because I wasn’t drowning. Yet. But I intended to paddle on. And here, looking out over Lake Sonoma now, standing next to BG -ex-lifeguard, ex-swim instructor, ex-surfer, my neighbor who talked me into this: BG- I tried to keep a cool grin going, and remember that I swam at the gym a couple weeks ago for two full straight hours, with no significant breaks… but that was a pool, four feet deep, and this was a lake. A lake where THE LOCAL OFFICIALS COUNT THE DROWNINGS EVERY YEAR. Still, I had that thin buoyant neoprene swim skin to rely on. My wet suit. That cool looking black, sea-lion hide, with reflective stripes, that my loving wife bought me for my birthday. I’m still not sure if she did it to encourage me to take on the challenge of the Ironman, or because she was worried about me, but either way I appreciated the gift of that 3/8 inch of air-filled plastic that interceded between me and drowning. Between me, and some anonymous public servant having to go out one summer morning and morosely change up the number on the sign, demarcating my mid-life, with this pant-shitting endeavor, and labeling it: “2”.

~

It was all BG’s fault. He talked me into it, although, in his defense, it had always been in the back of my mind. I’m up to 22 marathons, and was perhaps getting a little bored with the challenge. I’d known several people over the years who had completed the challenge of an Ironman, which is a triathlon event consisting of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride, and a full 26.2 mile marathon, completed in under 17 hours. It sounded “fun”, but I was always a runner -I’ve never owned a bicycle with more than a single gear and I didn’t learn to swim until I was in my teens. (I have a thin build with little to no body fat. I can run, but I float like a handgun.)

BG, on the other hand, describes himself as something of an ex-soccer player/lifeguard/tango dancer/helicopter pilot, and his general enthusiasm knows no bounds. He ran his first marathon with me a few years back, and seemed to love every second of his back-of-the-pack 5+ hour race. So, when the idea of the IronMan came up, there was little hesitation: “Yes! Let’s do it!”

It sounded fun. Of course, you don’t just roll out of bed and swim a few miles, and then bike a hundred more, not to mention the running. There was training involved. A serious time commitment. We both have kids, spouses, businesses, extraneous obligations. I didn’t have any of the proper equipment. Something was going to have to give. But BG is smart. He knew he needed someone to share the commitment with, someone to share the blame when he disappeared for weekends at a time on those century rides. And here I was. I was The Mark, he was the Hunter, and we were both going to go down. BG’s my neighbor, so it was easy for him to show up at my house every few days , while the kids play. He’d bring a beer or two, rest on my porch deck, pour out a bottle into a pint glass and hand it to me, and then nonchalantly bring up the idea, “So… what do you think about the IronMan?” 

But, hell, I’d always wanted to do it, was approaching mid-life, and it was kinda on my mind, so he was more of a ‘predatory fisherman’ and I was an easy carp. I flopped over and signed up for a short one.

We began with that little local triathlon on Camp Pendleton. “Semper Tri”, as it is called. It consisted of a short 500 meter ocean swim, a 20 mile bike ride, and a 3 mile run. Three miles! That was something I do every other day! No problem. I pulled out my old, dusty surfer wet suit (I hadn’t surfed since before I had kids -maybe ten or eleven years ago) and rolled out my mountain bike, a Father’s Day gift from a few years back, when the kids were learning to ride bikes, and got up early on race day. BG was there out front, all smiles, and we threw the bikes in the back off the truck and headed down to the beach.

~

“A mountain bike. That’s hardcore.” a woman said to me as I set off into the pack. Well, backof the pack. The swim had slowed me down somewhat. Remember, I had the lifeguards worried. And as I jogged out of the surf, clutching my soul and thanking God I had survived, I noticed I wasn't precisely dead last. There was another man, perhaps ten years older than me, jogging alongside in the sand. He shook his head, laughing in my direction. “Well, that was a helluva thing! Like a washing machine!” And he was right. There were waves. Real waves. Every other arm stroke slapped the chop hard on top, with the others feeling like they missed the surface of the water entirely. Your body felt like it was moving up and down more than forward, and emerging from the surf I found it difficult to run in a straight line, on the sand…

~

I have to say, I’m surprised the thing has registered over 5000 plays on Vimeo, though I always knew it was going to be beautiful if I did, in fact, get the shot. And I had always intended for it to be a personless set piece that showcased the idyllic camp in Buttonshell Cove. I guess it never occurred to me that the moment you take the faces out of the video, it immediately becomes accessible to the faceless patrons of the Internet, and those worldwide. Anyway, it’s nice. I’m glad people like it.

“GET THE SHOT!” was the Team Video chant/slogan/mantra for the week, with all its funny, drug-addled double entendre. Of course, none of the shots turned out as I had planned. I took the quad out and flew it around Tuesday morning as a sort of camera test, to see how I could move it around the pier and how the GoPro would expose the sunrise. I had planned to review the footage, make some mental notes, and shoot the thing for real later in the week but, alas, there was never another sunrise. Just cloudy mornings from there on out. So at the end of the week I went up and got the shot of the cross, hands shaking, and then went down and threw together an assemblage. I slapped the Coldplay song on it and called it Done.

I had heard the song months ago and immediately saw it in my head, the moving image tracking around the cross on Bible Peak, up and over, and revealing the camp below. And so I became obsessed with UAV photography on the cheap, and I feel blessed to have been able to procure the equipment. The song, “O (Hidden Track)” could be about anything, I suppose, but to me the flock of birds were all those people -high school kids and the groups of leaders- who just come and go, so beautifully, to this place, Camp Fox. And then there’s the serene flying imagery, so here we are.

I had so many other ideas for shots and got none of them. I should’ve used a neutral density filter, since everything seems slightly overexposed, but I didn’t. The tracking shot over the pier is much too long, but I didn’t have any other material to fill out the edit. I’m bothered by the people in it, since I wanted everything to be quiet, and a little desolate, with nothing but God’s beauty. I wanted to shoot the empty campfire circle, and the sun on the grand dining hall, but no. And then there’s my dopey self down below, in half the shots, looking up and trying not to crash. Oh well.

I rendered everything on the last night of camp and watched it and thought, “damn that is beautiful.” I thought of how lucky I was to be in such a beautiful place, and for 25 summers or so, and how blessed I was to get to capture it on film. The camp had a dance that night and then went up to the campfire circle. It was nearing midnight, and we lit a huge fire. I got my guitar and we all sang “At Camp Fox.” And then I spoke about camp, how it is like a slice of Heaven, and how the only way we’ve been able to do that all these years is by doing it under a cross, and so we have. Literally.

And then I showed the video, wondering if it was the last video I would ever show at camp, and if it was the last time I would ever speak at this campfire circle. And I suppose I have wondered that for the last 25 years.

~

Jake had a sincere desire to avoid desperation. Avoid it at all costs. And he didn't want to look desperate, or feel desperate, or even seem desperate, in that desperation, in and of itself, involved thoughtless/careless actions that usually led to disappointment. And yet he knew so many people who were desperate, and almost all of them, inevitably, did something noteworthy. Noteworthy in its stupidity. In that, the acts of desperate men ended up defining them, with complete disregard with whoever they were before they got so desperate that they acted stupid. Emerson said, most men live lives of quiet desperation, and that was just it. Jake did not want to be "most men". But he felt desperate all the same. And he fought it.

He fought it by working hard, and being quiet. By not saying the first thing that came to mind, and by avoiding people altogether when he knew that the desperation was bubbling to the surface. When that happened, the threat was near, and he was bound to do or say something so extraordinarily stupid, that there was no back-pedaling out of it. And when the desperation showed, it came out as anger, and he knew that having anger define him was a dangerous, character-destroying thing.

So he ran. He worked hard. He tired himself out. He held his dignity to the grindstone until the machine went dull. He wanted to be too tired to be desperate. Too tired to be angry. And if he had any energy left, he drank beer, which made him momentarily happy. And only one thing came of it, and they called it depression. 

So he feigned enthusiasm about things others felt passion for, but it came off looking merely crazy. And it's what your grandparents called "moody", but your college friends called "bi-polar". And that's when people really started to worry, so he shut up, and worked harder. Because there was at least some dignity in it -providing for your family. But he also drank more beer, and things remained out of balance, His life, he pondered one night at a brewery, was like this four-legged table, and one leg was taller than the others, so the whole thing wobbled. And what he was doing, he surmised, was putting a napkin under the apparent short leg to stop the wobbling, only to find that it still wobbled. So he would prop up the other leg, to no beneficial effect. And he would continue, working on all the legs, until he found that he had propped up all the legs with napkins, and beer coasters, and whathaveyou. And the table still wobbled. He wanted to grab the whole damn table and start cutting the legs, but he knew, somewhere deep inside, that if he started doing that, he would end up with a very short table.

A very short, wobbling table. So he wasn't sure what he needed, and came to the conclusion that he should talk to someone.

So the families got together one night at Jim's, down the street. And a few bottles of wine were opened and the barbecue was eaten and the parents got to talking and the kids ran in the yard, in the darkness, and Jim lit the firepit, and they sat around it and talked.

And the men outlasted the women, who retired inside, eventually, due to the cold, or the needs of the little ones. And the men of Outlander Court were left in primal huddle around the fire, in the dark. It got quiet, as long as the cups were full, and Jake suddenly felt the urge to reveal some small part of his desperation. Here was the moment. These guys would understand. And he was going to say something, wasn't sure what, opened his mouth, when...

"This has been a really tough year for me," said Jim.

Oh? thought Jake. And he replied in the manly way. "Hhhrrmm..."

And then Jim let loose. How he just couldn't take it anymore. How he was just barely hanging on. How he loved his family but had to quit his job, before he went completely insane. How this was gonna hurt, and how he was afraid no one would understand.

And Jake just sat there, altogether stunned and pissed. And he wanted to commiserate, but knew that if he said "I know how you feel, man" it would come off so careless and condescending, that he would lose Jim, like he'd lost the others. So he shut up and looked away. Which he knew also came off as careless, but which, also, men often understand as thoughtfulness.

Jim went on for a while, and he was earnest and heartfelt about it. And when he was done talking, Jake gave him a hand on the shoulder, and told him he'd help in any way he could, That all Jim needed to do was to ask. And Jim got up and hugged him.

And in that hug, Jake felt the last life sap out of him. He'd given away the last little bit of what he had.

And he was scared that he was done for.

The old man in the walker worked in construction. He built this suburb and planted those pine trees on the median of Peacock Hills Estates. One day, it was hot, and he was young and lazy, so he instructed his men to take it easy. They didn't dig through the clay -the caliche- deep enough, only a mere foot or two. And when they planted the tree, it took to the ground okay, but the roots never went deep, they ran shallow. And after about twenty years or so, you could see the rise in the asphalt. Cars would hit it with a goodly WHABUMP, but locals knew instinctively when it was coming, and they would slow appropriately, when their brain sensed the correct amount of drive time elapsed since the last intersection. After the first few times, no one noticed anymore.

Chin had tripped over the rise in the sidewalk slab, and Mike1819 saw her do it and ran to help. She didn't recognize him, in the shirt that he'd grabbed from the debris out front of the FOR SALE house. This is how they became friends. After he cleaned himself up.

Jake was installing fake grass just up the street, and had hit one of those roots and had to dig around it and have it manually removed, one hot day, as he cursed the sun, and the man who planted that tree, who was just passing by in his walker and Jake didn't recognize him.

After Jake cut that root, the tree began to go brown, and he noticed it on his run. The fake grass, and the dying tree, in an ironic reflex, and it bothered him. And later that year, when the Santa Anas came  that October, the tree went down,and the drunk college students coming home late from a party didn't see it, and crashed. While recovering from the hospital, the Dude decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him, and kicked his frat buddies out of the house. 

Then the kid and his girl had a baby, at the same time as Jake and his wife, and the kids maybe became good friends.

Mike1819 is the old man's son. They had a falling out. Araceli Flores asked if she could pray for the old man, since she saw him in the walker. He said No, pray for his son, whom he hasn't spoken with in years, and who lives a mile away. And she did, and he met Chin, and his life was changed.

But she prayed all the same. She prayed for the car that drove too fast, asking The Lord to reveal to them their unsafe speeds, and to call to their attention that small children lived on this street. This fast car, or that one, inevitably parked in front of the small house with the college kids living in it. A parent bought the home as an investment property, and then the twenty-somethings moved in, setting up TVs and turning their garage into a workout/party room, complete with punching bag and kegerator. Some Fridays would have all night parties, and the other neighbors scowled, as young adults would laugh and yell at midnight, going to and from their cars.

Araceli would pick up beer cans in the morning, and pray everyone made it home safe.

She prayed for the young couple with no children. The couple who often stumbled in late at night, and left for days on end. She could tell: there was no car in the driveway, and newspapers piled up, along with little baggies with pebbles and business cards in them, tossed by landscapers looking for work. She prayed for this couple because she once found an empty pharmaceutical pill bottle labeled “CANNABIS”, and she hoped that the children had not gotten into it, as it was empty.

She prayed for the woman on the street whose husband had up and left since. And though the marriage had been hard, the punishment of unwitting abandonment was something late night television had a hard time easing. 

Araceli knew. She saw the light coming from the window, late at night.

She would pray for Jake, though he didn’t know it. She saw him with his kids out front, from time to time, and could tell he was just tired. Sunburnt, unshaven, and sometimes wincing as he picked the little ones up. He usually smiled, and she appreciated the small bit of energy he spent on her being cordial, friendly, but it was clear that his desperation was too much to hide. And she prayed for him. 

Araceli was a superhero, and her super-power was that she could see right through anyone. So she made her way around the cul-de-sac, walking, praying. And to an outsider, she appeared as a harmless, unassuming woman, whose well-behaved teenagers were getting ready to leave the nest, and she was happy about it. But she didn’t pray out loud, and she didn’t move her lips, so no one knew the truth. Which was that she was saving the world.

~

And as we pulled into the driveway with little Landon sitting there, face-forward, with an expectant look on his face, Jake checked him in the rear-view mirror. Landon raised his little finger, pointed, and said his third word.

“home.”

"Where do they go? I mean, in the daytime?" asked Christina. "You would think that you would see them all the time, but no." 

And just then, as if summoned by some heretofore unnoticed power in her simple human voice, was a coyote standing in the middle of the street, mouth open, tongue out, looking directly at them with what looked like a sly, animal smile. They took a slight step back, wondering if they should prepare for a canine attack-

But the coyote clearly determined and knew instinctively: Not a threat. And it trotted to the side of the road.

Ben and Christina just stood there, stunned. They watched the coyote non-chalantly make its way around the side of the house, and then the thing leaped -straight up- and over what must have been a six foot fence. It was impressive. And it had disappeared.

Christina whispered, "Was that it? Was that the one?"

"No. I doubt it," said Ben. "They travel in packs. It could be..." and then he realized he didn't really know what he was talking about. This coyote ran alone.

"Man. I've never seen a dog jump like that," Ben tried to change the subject line.

Christina looked at him with her BS meter red-lining, but she didn't say it. "I can't believe we were just talking about coyotes, and then BAM. A coyote."

"Well, that's the damnedest thing," said Ben,

Christina just sighed. "Yeah." 

And they moved along.

~

But Ben and Christina's cat had, in fact, not been killed by a coyote. Their cat, Cliche, had been intentionally driven over by Saul Indergand. He was almost drunk, or close enough, as he left the local brewery and took side roads home (to avoid the Friday night DUI checkpoints) to his 2500 square foot, high-ceilinged, fully IOS-automated home in the suburb closer to the beach. 

He'd had a few "double" IPAs, brewed by the local hop geniuses, and after that he'd decided to drive by the old house, the one he'd sold at top dollar to that nice couple with no children. The suckers went for it, he recalled fondly when asked, and it was his ticket out of there. Out and away. Away from the Naked Runner, the annoying evangelists, and away from his insufferable wife. Out of that neighborhood forever, if he could help it. "To a better suburb."

Except that's where the good beer was. So he went back, for the beer, from time to time. 

The brewery was in a non-descript, low-rise industrial park, as was the fashion in the area. Guys made beer, and they did it well. Well enough that they needed no 50 inch flatscreens over the shwanky mahogany bar, nor granite countertops in the Men's Rooms. No, they made good beer. The men would come, these brewers thought. And they did. Others came, too.

Saul was asking for another, and the bartender took personally his moving. "No! I try and get back here whenever I can! You guys know I love your IPAs more than anyone's!" and the kegworker just handed him another "large" taster. He remembered the story. Had heard the whole thing, and had had it recounted to him by other employees.

"It's just..." and Saul looked off into the distance, (though the walls were mere feet away.) 

"Ever since Roxy was killed. Taken. When that guy ran her over so intently. It was obvious that he hated her. So I had let her crap on his lawn once. Or twice. What of it?! I usually picked it up!"

The bartender drew the conclusion, at this point, that Roxy was a dog, though Saul Indergand had always spoken of her as if she was a cat. It made no sense, but neither did he care, otherwise. He had beers to pour. When he tuned in again, Saul was still talking.

"I guess everything fell to shit right after Roxy was taken. I've never really made the connection, exactly. But after I lifted her bloody, lifeless body from the street. And looked around to see who would come... Saul stopped at this point in the story. Always did. And finished the last finger in his pint.

"I just..." He trailed off.

BING BING BING BING! The bartender had rag a bell. "A NEW KEG IS BEING TAPPED! LIFT YOUR GLASS!" and everyone gathered around to see the brewmaster emerge with several odd tools. He made his way smiling, amidst applause, to a formal, ceremonial oak barrel, (though the beer had mostly come from the warehouse-sized steel fermenters standing nearby) and he popped a rubber bung out and jammed a tap into its hull. Everyone cheered, and beer was poured.

And Saul, quiet in the corner, holding back what may have been a single tear, thumbed his iPhone and pulled up a photo of "Roxy". A small Irish terrier with a simple canine grin. 

He leaned to the celebratory group next to him. "This is Roxy." He sobbed.

"TO ROXY!" the nearby boys yelled, and the entire beer hall responded.

"ROXY! HO-HO-HO!"

And Saul left, somewhat insulted. He took the old roads home, and drove by the old house on Outlander Court, offended by what they'd done to the place. He'd planted that tree! And now where was it? And why'd they repaint? And those new vinyl windows were an abomination. He was especially angry that they'd torn out the driveway and had it replaced with pavers. He'd poured that driveway himself, mostly, one spring weekend. And now it was gone. So were the handprints that he and his wife, Chin, had impressed in the corner. And the dog prints. They were gone, too.

So he hit the accelerator and drove over the first pet he saw,

~

Araceli had a list, too, like Jake. Her list was numbered, and it was numbered on the curb of her street. 

Araceli Flores walked the cul-de-sac, praying for every house as she stroll past. It was not a habit for her, nor was it a ritual. But it could, she reasoned sometimes, be deemed a "discipline", as it wasn't easy. And she often found it difficult to justify that anyone on the street actually deserved it. 

It had been over a week since the cat was last seen, and it was time for Ben and Christina to deduce the obvious: coyotes got her. They hadn't had her for more than a few months, and were barely even committed to the name they'd given her ("Cliche") but now they were confronted with the decision on whether or not to replace her.

Christina was cleaning the litter box when she decided, No, and Ben nodded in agreement. The house was clean now, cleaner than it had ever been (at least, since the kids moved out) and neither of them could handle the responsibility of the litter box. The litter, pawed into the air and collecting in an uncleanable corner, where, set in stone -if it was possible- was the smell, unmistakeable, and unmoveable. The litter box sat in a cabinet in the guest bathroom. The door had been removed, so that the cat could wade in and out, and it seemed to suit everyone fine. Until now, where they found themselves with a completely defiled cabinet, one that must be destroyed, if not burned altogether to remove the smell. It's too bad, they thought, since the sinks were so nice. Maybe they could save the fixtures.

Then there was the matter of the poop itself, having to handle it, and move it off. Few things in life were less fun, than cleaning the litter box. So, No. No more cats. Their house would be clean again.

They had several perfectly labeled trash cans, as well as a compost bin. This was in addition to the "Yard Waste" and "Recyclables" containers they'd already had, as they separated their recyclables on their own and took them down the transfer station -the city couldn't be trusted with the pick-up. "How do they even separate them? How does a machine even know what is paper and what is plastic? I mean, seriously."

Christina just shrugged. Thought of the cat.

Their regular waste bin was never full, they recycled so much. Additionally, they had a compost bin in their back yard, where they composted old food, grass clippings, raked leaves. They saved the runoff water from the downspout on their roof. Several large barrels lined up on the side of the house collected water for the garden. Ben took great pleasure in shredding junk mail and old, useless phone books and composting those, too, when he could. And every Wednesday morning the two of them took to the neighborhood with their grabbing tools and plastic bags.

"I knew we should have kept her as an indoor cat," complained Christina. Ben just shook his head, thinking of the guest bath, as he picked up a plastic water bottle and put it in a separate bag, to recycle later.

"I heard a pack of coyotes just last night. I was up at 3AM to get a glass of water, and you could hear them yipping and howling out across the field. It was erie. I wonder why they do that. But it sounded like there were fifty of them," said Ben.