Hither Hills
An unlikely romance in the summer of ‘77.
Author: Laura Buchwald
Laura Buchwald is a New York City-based writer and editor who has spent a lot of time in New Orleans, which partially inspired her first novel.
The Coat Check Girl comes out October 15 as the first of a three-book series. It will be available for pre-order on July 16 from your local bookstore or wherever books are sold. Support independent bookstores!
Narrator: Laura Buchwald
A huge thanks to Laura for also contributing her voice for this episode!
Read Now
“If you let yourself love a wild thing, you’ll end up looking at the sky." –Holly GoLightly
I fell in love with a seagull in the summer of ’77.
There’s a feeling you get when someone’s watching you—prescience—I think that’s the word. I was lying in the sun, a book resting on my belly—Fear of Flying, because that was the year I only read books by women—and I felt this essence. Definitely not a ghost, not this time.
I can’t really explain it except to say that it was as if the airflow shifted and I heard this inaudible buzz—like hearing the color yellow. Does that make sense? I’ve always been kind of obsessed with what colors sound like, or how music tastes. I opened one eye, then the other – and from a couple yards away he was studying my face, this magnificent, barrel-chested gull with feathers the color of a rainstorm and strong, sturdy legs. August at the seashore there’s obviously no shortage of things that fly, but this one was different. He was intent, focused, oblivious to all the birds who were scouring the beach for clams to pick apart, wallets to filch, small children to menace.
I sat up, and Erica Jong slid across my sun-screened torso into the sand. I lowered my sunglasses and squinted and he cocked his head, eyes trained on me the entire time. We looked at each other for what felt like a minute but probably wasn’t. Then I cocked my head right and left and he mimicked me. I did it again in case it was a fluke. It wasn’t. We went back and forth a few times until I laughed. I hadn’t meant to break the spell, but I did. When I settled down I raised my hand up in a sort of wave. He lifted a wing and waved back. He opened his beak, then closed it. I yawned.
He hopped a few steps closer. I didn’t for one second take him as some precocious animal, like a rabid coyote who enters a campsite in broad daylight, or some dopey deer who bounds into the crosshairs to lick a hunter’s elbow. This was far beyond any of that, and I knew it.
Another seagull came by and hovered; mine cawed, protecting me. Every relationship I’d been in had felt precarious, like it could topple at any minute if I said the wrong thing or smiled too often or didn’t laugh enough. In the increment of time we had known each other, I felt safe in a way I never had before. It was what I’d been searching for. I never thought I’d find it, and certainly not like this.
The intruder flew off and we were just us again, me and this magical being whose name I didn’t know, nor did he mine. He came closer and gestured at my straw bag with his head. I wasn’t sure what he wanted – I didn’t know yet how well we would come to read one another – but I reached for the bit of muenster cheese sandwich that was left over from lunch and presented it to him. He nodded, sort of. My hand shook. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. He hopped onto the edge of my chair, and I broke off a tiny piece. When he took it from me, the tip of his beak grazed my thumbnail and my arm tingled.
After lunch he scooted back down and sat next to my chair, gazing out at the ocean. We stayed at the beach for another 45 minutes; I went back to my book, my novel about unexpected, verboten attraction. Don’t think the coincidence of it all was lost on me. We were very aware of one another - I was no longer able to get lost in the story. Every couple of minutes I’d glance up and catch him looking my way. Sometimes I’d see it out of the corner of my eye and I’d force myself to finish the paragraph, or the page, before I smiled at him. I couldn’t not smile. I was captivated.
Charles and I spent the next three weeks together. We took most of our meals at the picnic table outside the tiny house I’d rented; I fell in love with cooking for two, lobster, scallops, steamed clams, fresh corn—on the cob for me and off for him. Every morning I’d take my walk along the beach and he’d glide next to me. He’d encourage me to keep going whenever I wanted to stop. After lunch I’d sunbathe and read while he did his thing, but always he’d check in with me. I’d never felt less alone. What’s funny, or probably ironic, is that my whole reason for spending the month at the beach in the first place was to learn how to be by myself; I didn’t think I knew how. But that summer I realized that I’d always been alone, that I’d never belonged to anyone. That the relationships that had come before didn’t count; I’d never been half of a whole. I’d thought I was several times, but this wasn’t the case. This made me question everything I’d ever believed, and there’s really nothing much lonelier than that. Charles filled a void that I hadn’t known was there until he came along.
For as long as I can remember the sea has overwhelmed me—its enormity, its murkiness, all those shipwrecked sailors in their briny graves. And, people made fun of me for this, but I’ve always been terrified of the things that live in the deepest parts of the ocean. Charles picked up on all of this the day we met without my needing to say a word, and so when the tides would start to roll in, he’d plant himself in front of my chair, his tail feathers to the water, like some sentry protecting me from all of my fears. Guarding against everything in the wild, wild world that wished it could do me harm. No way was he going to let anything get me.
In the late afternoons we’d go back to the house so I could scrub the sand and salt off of my body. Until I met Charles, I would never have used the outdoor shower. It made me feel too vulnerable, self-conscious, even though the only people watching me were the bugs and spiders that made their homes in the knotty corners. Once Charles came along I threw all my inhibitions away; he was my conduit, my kind and gentle guide to the natural world. He’d perch on the highest point of the wooden stall and look off in the distance to give me my privacy—though I did catch him peeking more than once. I didn’t mind. I loved to watch him, too, while I bathed, loved the way droplets of water would bead on his back and glitter in the sun, illuminating him like some kind of angel.
Evenings were our favorite, evenings and early mornings. We loved to watch the sun rise out of the mist and sink, at the end of the day, back down beneath the horizon. I brought my camera the first few times but we never ended up taking photos; these moments were too perfect to be captured. So I’d prepare our dinner and put it in the oven or on the grill to keep warm, pour myself a glass of Chardonnay, and make Charles a bowl of water. He’d follow me up the hill to the flat rocks that faced the ocean. We’d sit together and watch the colors swirl while the sun dissolved, and soon the moon and stars would begin climbing up into the inky night. Usually, we’d spend this hour in silence, reveling in the twilight, watching the magic show, and letting our thoughts and fantasies take over.
We listened to music. That summer I was all about The Who’s Quadrophenia:
Here by the sea and sand,
Nothing ever goes as planned.
I’d heard that song—that whole album—thousands of times before, but the first time we listened to it together we were stunned by those words, like they had written them just for us. Maybe they did.
Nighttime was the hardest—Charles never wanted to come inside the house and he never really explained why. There wasn’t anything for me to do except honor his wishes, for if I learned one thing that summer it’s that love is compromise. Before Charles, being “in love” meant I was sacrificing something, that I was biting my tongue and swallowing my wishes so that he, whichever he was in my life at the time, wouldn’t feel put upon. But this was different. Even though he needed to be outside, Charles would always stay nearby, and I’d watch him through the window, silhouetted by the porchlight. I’d usually stay up another hour or two reading, and when I clicked off the lighthouse lamp by my bed, he’d coo twice. Goodnight. Or sometimes it was, Sweet dreams. Or my name, Ri-ta. I’d fall asleep, drunk on love and promise. I really don’t know where he went while I slept, though I have a few theories. I didn’t care; all that mattered was that he would be there in the morning. And he always was.
I told Charles everything, my hopes, dreams, every secret I’d ever held inside. I told him my most embarrassing moments and deepest regrets. I told him how, as a kid, I’d always felt like some kind of changeling, like I wasn’t really part of my family or this world. He made me realize that being “other” is okay, that it’s not at all the same as being “less than.” And he did so without ever saying a word, just by listening. There was no judgment. He never told me what I should do or think.
During my final week at the shore I started to have the “what now?” conversation. There was nothing he could say, and I knew that. We didn’t yet live in a world that let us love who we wanted to love. But more than that was the fact that our rest-of-the-year lives wouldn’t have worked. He’d have been miserable in Schenectady, it was hard not to be, and besides, what would he have done there? He belonged on the Atlantic. He loved the beach. The beach loved him.
I held back the tears that threatened to fall whenever I mentioned the future. Charles felt things deeply; it would have only made our parting harder. The morning I left, he stood on the picnic table watching me, wordlessly, as I brought my bags out to the car. By the time I’d packed the final items and locked the house, he was gone. I felt sick to my stomach.
Then I noticed the white under-feather on my windshield; he’d left a piece of him, his way of telling me that he’d always be with me and I with him. Somewhere along the line, I’d later discover, he’d plucked my pink bandana from the laundry and kept it, or hidden it. I secured the feather under the windshield wiper—Charles would have preferred to ride on the outside of the car—and climbed into the driver’s seat. It was time to go home.
On my way out of town, I spotted him rifling through the dumpster behind the IGA. He was in a bad way. He’d been different in the days leading up to the end, distant, quiet, almost resentful of what was happening, but I understood; if he were the one leaving I’d probably have acted the same way. I almost stopped, and to this day I wonder what would have happened if I had. But what is the point of saying goodbye to someone you don’t want to leave in the first place?
An hour into the trip I stopped at a toll. As I was pulling away and rolling up my window, a gust of wind pulled the feather from its place, and I watched it float away in the rearview mirror. And a few more miles down the road, my tape player made an awful squiggly noise, and the entrails of Quadrophenia came spilling out all over themselves. I eventually replaced it with a CD, but it’s not the same.
I still have Fear of Flying. I’ve held onto that paperback all these years; it’s twice as thick as it used to be and wavy with dried seawater. Every now and then I pull it from the shelf, breathe it in, and shake a few grains of sand into my palm. The day there’s no more sand to shake, another piece of me will die.
I rarely go to the beach anymore. I can’t explain why to other people; I learned in the year that followed that August that some things are better kept to oneself. When I do go, the spray of saltwater, the distant sounds of children’s laughter, every webbed footprint in the sand, it all brings back the sweet pang of a sublime and fleeting love. How do you get someone to stop reminding you that they exist?