PAGAN
LOVE AND WILDING HEARTS
31.
THE SATYR AND THE SEA-NYMPH
Who would have
guessed to look at the modern campus of the University of British Columbia that at the
bottom of those seacliffs there existed a jungle and an immense naked Neolithic tribe? The
sea thundered, verdant plant-life flourished, and flowers of every color: and in one place
along the beach leafy branches stretched thirty feet over high tide waters, skimming the
surface and providing a wonderful place to sit and observe the vast beauty, to sit in the
nude with a beautiful young woman, sharing a carafe of wine; upon the stout limbs of the
tree, stretching so far out over the sea. To walk in the sand with the beauty to the place
where those trees were and to ask her smugly, hotly, if she would like to climb onto a
really stout limb and rock for a while in the seawinds...
The Frazier
River meets the sea on the southern extent of the nude beach; the area, known as the
endowment lands is a wild life sanctuary. Through that natural corridor the vast northwest
wilderness may enter or at least, approach the city of Vancouver: and many wilderness
creatures made their appearance from time to time upon the beach amusing and sometimes
startling the nude bathers; deer were many and someone claimed to have seen an elk. There
were families of otters too and once I found the tracks of a large wild cat. How rare and
even strange, to think all these creatures were ranging within the dimensions of a vast
western city! Altogether the elements of free public nudity and the surrounding unspoiled
nature easily gave everyone upon the jungle sands beneath the cliffs the fervent feeling
that the Garden of Eden restored!
Through that
jungle and upon those sands wandered the ancient human tribe—alive and well after
lost ages of contagious dissolution! Living again, the natural species, the noble
upright-walking naturally nude human beings with their creative minds unfettered and their
poetic spirits unbound. What a phenomenon to behold!
I walked the
length of the beach and eavesdropped on bits of conversations. The people who gathered
here were so interesting! They came from every walk of life, every occupation. They came
from foreign countries: Japan, Australia, South Africa, Germany, France, Sweden, and Check
Slovakia, Brazil, everywhere!
The numerous
French-Canadians were particularly remarkable. They usually hung out together, a flock of
colorful birds... I sat near them and listened, but it availed me little: I could not
understand a single word of their language. But I loved to listen to them speak. And I
loved the perfumes of the Cannadienne women. They even seemed to walk differently from all
other women. They were so graceful. Their facial expressions were unique too, their eyes
mysterious, expressive, sincere. Beautiful.
I wanted to know
them and I tried to engage them in conversation. And
to this they sometimes would respond in a friendly fashion. And other times not so much.
Often they simply could not speak English. In those moments we smiled and shrugged. I
wished I could quickly learn the French language so I could converse with them. The French
women seemed to me to be the most sensual women I had ever seen. I knew I was scruffy and
wild-looking, moneyless and relatively unemployable: virtually destitute and homeless -- a
social outcast. And I could not speak their language.
Could I really expect any reaction other than that they would ignore me?
Not
realistically. Fortunately I wasn’t a realist. It’s the only thing I had going
for me. So I continued to sit near them and observe them but I tried not to be obvious
about it. Often they bought beer from me and they would invite me to sit with them and
smoke some good hash. They loved hash. So all in all, the days passed pleasantly with
friendly laughter and easy-going vibrations.
And so it was
that one day in the early part of the month of May that I stood among the trees in my
private little spot extracting bottles of beer from their cardboard cases and placing them
in the gunny-sack when I looked out through the leaves and noticed a sensational young
woman sitting upon a large log. She seemed to be watching everything, the sea, the people,
the birds soaring... She was smiling. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen in my entire life. Beyond a doubt.
In fact she was
so beautiful that for a few moments I wondered to myself what was the use of even saying
anything to her? So often in the past I had spoken to a young woman like that only to have
her totally ignore me. Oh sure, it hurt my pride but. I’m a reasonable man overall. I
certainly did not begrudge any woman her privacy, nor her choice of acquaintances. I
recognized my limitations and bit the bullet as I watched the wealthy young men with the
athletic physiques suavely entertain those beauties, listened to their laughter, watched
them kiss... And for the most part, I remained alone, alone and wishing I wasn’t.
But why should I
be feeling so left out? I was twenty-seven years old and I had sure known my share of
beauties. But all my successes seemed to turn
to mud when any girl shut me down; I felt so miserable. They did it so well. Their
rejections cut me like knives. Their eyes sprayed venomous scorn as they watched me fall
apart. I hated falling apart. I felt pathetic. Sometimes I almost cried. Cutting men down is an art form for some women.
Much like love-making was an art form for me. We human beings like to be great artists
about the things we do... We choose our arts.
Surely my psyche
was about as rudely mended and patched as my pants. It wouldn’t be so bad if I
weren’t so alone. One loving woman could heal me of all those wounds. Real love would
heal me through and through, forever. But those one-night-stands and brief relationships
that seemed to be my lot in life did little for
And now there
was this beautfulest of girls in front of me sitting on that log. And rather than go
through more of those agonizing moments of insult, and injury I gazed at her and tried to
perceive what she would do if I tried to strike up a conversation with her. I tried to
sense whether she was a positive energy source or a negative one. But looks can be
deceiving, especially when a women is as perfectly beautiful as she was. One tried and
true principal that rarely fails is this: if the woman appears to be absolutely,
remarkable, fantastical then it stands to reason that she obviously must know with some
conceit exactly how fine she is, and she must know too that she has her pick of all the
most excellent young men in all the world. I might expect to be rebuffed devastatingly by
such a woman. And more than once I have bit my lip and steered my course silently around
one of those types to avoid such predictable abuse.
So, roughly
speaking, this may expose some of my feelings as I stood on my sleeping bag with the gunny
sack of beers over my shoulder and looked out through the branches of the trees upon the
young woman sitting on the log. In one moment I decided absolutely not to say a single
word to her, to go my way and forget her, to pretend she did not exist -- and in the next
moment I reversed that decision and wondered what I could possibly say to her that
wouldn’t sound empty and inane. But in my frustration there was nothing I could think
of that did not sound hollow and shakey. Nothing. So I better not even try... But then: it
wouldn’t hurt to at least say hello would it? Just a simple. “Hello!”? Back and forth I went in a frenzied state of mind
as I gazed upon her from my camp in the trees.
She was
apparently alone. No one else had come near her during the fifteen minutes that I had been
preparing the beers. How unusual for such a beautiful woman to be alone! Perhaps she
intimidated everyone as she did me. I kept expecting at any minute for some hulking brute
of male perfection to saunter over to her and devour her with brazen efficiency. But none did. Yet she seemed to be waiting for
someone. And there came an overwhelming feeling upon my heart that she was waiting for me.
Waiting for me! As though the Eternal Goddess of the heavens herself had sent her,
and she was waiting, waiting. For me. Or was incarnate in her. Waiting for me.
How miserable I
was! How absurd: I was dissolute! I had nothing; Yet I watched her, so beautiful upon her
log: Venus born from the sea... Yes, she seemed to be the Goddess waiting... Why was I
deluding myself? How cold and useless to do that to my dreams, to wound myself thus, to
submit myself to torture... But the unshakable feeling rose like a fire in my breast and
my heart raced. I had to do something. I
walked out and sold beers to some nearby people, changed their bills, opened their
bottles, made small talk for a couple minutes. Afterwards I stood up and looked in her
direction. There she was still sitting upon the log, still alone...
Beyond her
several groups of people relaxed on their towels. Surely
they would want to buy some beers. To get to them I would have to pass near her. My feet
were already walking. But I still hadn’t decided what I would do, say. One thought
did come to me though: Beyond a doubt it could not possibly be long before some fellow
would get brave enough to go sit beside her on the log and engage her in conversation.
Whoever that person was he would have the best chance with her of anyone.
I could not see
any reason to wait and sadly watch the results of his performance. No. She wasn’t
there for him. She was there for me. Yes.
I wanted to know
her. My heart was rushing. I stopped in front of her. She looked up at me and smiled, the
most wonderful smile...
I offered her a
beer. I could see her eyes were dark brown, they sparkled. She answered in musical French
accents, searching her mind for English words.
“Mais
Oui! Voulez-vous --whood yhoo lyke to smok sum hash?”
She produced a
joint of hash mixed with tobacco and some matches. I
opened up a beer for her. She had a drink and put the joint to her perfect lips. I struck
the match and lit the joint. She toked and handed it to me. And so we passed it back and
forth until it was gone.
Although I could
speak no French and she spoke only sparing English we were soon having a wonderful time
trying to communicate, and doing pretty good. And it was obvious that we both felt real
good about everything. She said her name was Marie-Elaine.
I thought it
would be good if we could do something together, to keep the good energy flowing into new
and better things. I asked her if she would like to walk along the beach with me while I
sold the rest of my beers. I’m not sure if she completely understood me but she
answered happily. She jumped off the log and we held hands as we walked along the sands.
Whenever we came
near groups of people I called out. “Beer! Seventy-five
cents!” and if anyone was interested they called out, “Over here!”
and we went to them and gave them whatever number of beers they wanted and accepted their
money. We developed the system that Elaine accepted their money and made the proper change
while I dug their beers out of the sack and opened them.
We walked all
the way to Spanish Banks, the end of the nudist area and turned around. Several times we
stopped and sat upon logs and watched the seabirds and the thundering rolling sea, tried
again to communicate with simple words and phrases, sign language. When we walked we
walked together closely. Her soft young body felt so alive, so hot. One of her pert breasts rubbed against my chest so
warm and soft, full of female electricity. She had such pretty breasts...
Her voice was
kind and happy and colorful. The French tones were unbelievable. And she showed no signs
whatsoever or having anything better or more important to do. In fact time seemed to be
momentarily standing still. And I felt a glow in my chest and in my mind. This young girl
possessed so much innocence, so much blind faith-in me and in life. Was I imagining things? The looks she gave me...
Her heart wasn’t holding anything back... Was she an angel? Was she sent to me direct
from heaven?
We arrived at my
leaf-enshrouded encampment and settled upon the sleeping bag. We made love. Beautiful
love. Hot and sweet and slow and full of wonderful kisses.
Afterwards we
lay together listening to each other’s breathing. I knew beyond any doubt that I
could love this young woman forever. There was magic here. Verbal communication between us
was so difficult though. But there was something I needed to know: I needed to know if she
had a regular boyfriend. I needed to know if she was free to be my lover, maybe even to
live with me on the beach. I tried several times to get her to understand my questions.
She looked very
thoughtful. She answered:
“Mais
wei. A boyfren’. Frank. Wei. Bot – No more...”
She paused a
long time and looked at me. “He hit me! Poom. Poom.”
She made signs
of a fist striking her face.
I was shocked,
what sort of man would ever hit such a beautiful girl? She looked so nervous and
frightened all of a sudden that I held her close and kissed her face where her fist had
indicated his blows had landed. She kissed me back passionately. We made love again.
Suddenly I
stopped and looked into her eyes deeply and urged her strongly not to return to that
person who had beat her. I told her I wanted her to come live with me. She asked me where?
She seemed a little incredulous when she realized for the first time that I actually lived
full-time right there in the sand. I told her it was a good life, that I managed to stay
dry and warm and there were always plenty of oysters and beer and that it was kind of
beautiful to live like this. I wasn’t sure if she understood everything I said. But
she listened. We kissed again. Soft and hot
and then we made love again.
Here and there
between bursts of passion she answered in her pretty pigeon English that she would love to
live with me in the sand. Finally I lay there
as spent as I have ever been in my life, unable to move a muscle. She rose up and kissed
me and said she had to go get her belongings. And then she was gone. I lay there benumbed
with happiness, staring at the leaves or the trees far above me swaying against the sky. I
was thinking she had meant she was taking a short walk out on the beach to get her clothes
and that she would be back in a moment. Making love makes me tired; especially under the
hot sun, and especially the way we had been making love... I could not move; I just lay
there suspended in rapture.
But when fifteen
minutes had passed and she had not yet returned my senses rushed awake and I realized that
she was gone! I rose and rushed out onto the beach and scanned up and down the
beach for any sign of her. She wasn’t there. I knew then she must have meant that she
was walking into the city to get her things. That was at least two miles each way! I would
have gone with her if I had realized she was going that far! Fear struck me like an icy cold arctic wind: Would
she really return? She had said she would... I wondered how long she would be gone...
Would she hitchhike or would she walk? Would she meet someone else along the way? She was clearly vulnerable now. Would someone
sense that and get her stoned obliviously on good hash or acid and abscond with her into
some seedy bedroom? I’d seen it happen before... Or would she stop to discuss
everything that had happened with a friend who would then talk her out of her silly plan
to return to the beach to live with a bearded, long-haired American who she had just
barely met and knew nothing about? Or would her boyfriend come back with her -- angry and
crazy? Or would he sweet talk her into forgetting about me and staying with him? Or what
if he were right now beating her up? Pummeling her beautiful face with his fist? Punching her in the stomach? Pulling her hair? I
feared for her. Why oh why hadn’t I gone with her? WHY?
An hour of
painful waiting passed. I paced upon the beach logs like a wounded lion. I was so frantic.
Where was she? How was it that I had let her go? I cussed myself out angrily. I should
have gone with her!
At
least I should have found out where she was staying in the city of Vancouver! So that in
case she had afterthoughts it would be worth a try to go visit her and try to convince her
to come to the beach again. But I had no idea where she lived. How could I ever find her
again in that huge city? I had visions of spending a month methodically walking up and
down every street in the city looking for her. Ridiculous. Yikes. Feverishly I remembered
her thick French accents, her succulent breasts, her heated kisses, her gentle passion-and
I ached to think she might never return! Oh
Goddess! I had just let slip through my fingers the most blessed darling of space and time
I had ever come across! Whoa! What a dummy I was; She was GONE!
But maybe not.
She’d said she would be back soon… If she was as truthful as she was wonderful
in every other way then she would truly return. And so I continued nervously pacing around
the beach in front of my camp watching for her. Most likely she would be coming from the
north. I stood on a high log and strained rny
eyes to see as far up the beach as possible for any sign of her walking along the logs.
Hours passed.
The hot winds grew cooler as the sun moved across the sky plunging swiftly towards the sea. The day was ending. Most of the sunbathers had already packed up their towels and frisbies and gone their ways. The shadows grew longer and longer and my heart fluttered in agony as the shadows seemed to engulf me. What emptiness: to expect so much, to be so deeply disappointed. I feared the worst. I would never see her again. This very moment she might well be bruised and bloody lying in the corner of a dingy room covered with clothes tumbled out of a backpack... moaning, crying. I stood with my eyes gazing hungrily up the beach. I found myself whispering her name into the warm winds that swept over the shadowed sands.
“Marie Elaine... Marie Elaine... Where are you Marie Elaine? Please come back to me
Marie Elaine. I need you... I know it seems odd to say it because I just met you for the
first time today. But I love you. I do. I already love you. Believe it, please. Please
come back to me, Marie Elaine. I need you and I love you. Please, you winds that fly over
that city, please find her and tell her I love her. Please urge her to return to me...
Please...”
I was an empty
vessel tossed upon the shore. My hands hung limp at my side. I no longer paced. I stood
immovable with my eyes gazing up the beach. Waiting. Hoping. The sun was setting, the orb
a brilliant red, setting all the clouds on fire. Far, far away there was a figure
approaching, walking along the tops of logs. So far away that I could not see for certain
who it was. Over her shoulder she carried an enormous quilt which trailed behind her, a
beautiful handmade quilt of black and red velvet. She was a young girl. She was Marie
Elaine. She had returned to me, like an answered prayer.
And as to
whether or not she was an angel or other divine incarnation I do not know for sure to this
day; but at this writing I have been with Marie Elaine, “Ellie”, for nineteen
years and we share a deep love; so although one might say that nineteen years should be
enough time for a man to answer such a question with some assuredness. I can only say that
she has me constantly more puzzled than ever about those things, and that as each day
passes I find myself more and more in a state of rapture and awe regarding her, and I
count my foremost blessing to be that she shares my life.
***
Today is June 6,
2002. I have just finished editing this book, PAGAN LOVE AND WILDING HEARTS, which I wrote
many years ago. Ellie and I met about May 11, 1975. We have been together now for 27
years.
