I regretfully denied my mom’s invitation for a full moon ceremony at her garden near the river. If I hadn’t, if I had gone with her to the plot of land beneath an open sky, surrounded by silence, maybe I would have heard something—seen something that would help me put the pieces together. Summer full moons for the majority of Californians are whimsical, a cause for celebration, a rebirth. But in my town, at the mouth of a river, hidden beneath the dense redwoods, backed up against the cliffs of the Pacific, summer full moons breed death.
Blind Beach—which until this very moment I considered to be named after its limited accessibility and visibility—is found just before the infamous Goat Rock (and where that got its name can only be through wise tales). It’s where I enjoy an early morning run, a mid morning joint, and a late morning tan. I don’t park in the parking lot, but instead on the side of the road just before, where there is a much more treacherous path down that I share with surfers and the occasional animal. It’s a single-foot path, meaning to stand square might result in a 30 meter stumble. The clay is moist and crumbly in the mornings, and I enjoy the existential challenge of going up and down, the focus required for each step, and the way my heart rate spikes halfway through. I like to be the first on the sand, followed by the same couples, much older than me, with their curious dogs and compostable cups of espresso.
On my luckiest days I find sea stars and dungeness crabs left by the tide. I pick them up before the gulls and walk to the furthest end of the beach where I set my bag and place them amongst the rocks so they can be scooped up by a wave.
On my unlucky days I find their carcasses pecked clean, some broken abalone, and that the gulls have stolen my favorite rock and shit all over it.
Then there are the days after a full moon.
I park my car, wrap my towel around my neck and toss my duffel over my shoulder. I don’t see any seagulls, but I see vultures. Three massive ones. They circle and land on a part of the beach just out of sight.
I round the first corner, I have to use my hands to lower myself onto the next section of the path. From here I can see all of Blind Beach in its glory. Down on the sand, beneath the frenzy of vultures, two white carcasses sit about twenty meters apart, perfectly in line. A couple of washed up seals. Or maybe, the leftovers of a feasted-on whale. My feet hit some unstable rocks and slip. I catch myself and watch the chunks of clay roll and bounce down the cliff. I hurry after them.
One older couple beat me to the sand. Their dog, uncharacteristically on a leash, tugged away from them towards the white lumps of meat. The vultures, scared off by the dog, are huddled together some ways away, waiting for their turn. The laziest carnivores.
I walk closer and can make out the white hair of the mystery animal. I see the woman near the other body, her hands on her hips. Her husband is still trying to control the pooch. She leans down closer to the animal, tilts her head to get a better view, then shakes it and turns away.
A few feet from it I can see how bloated it is. The body has yet to be picked at by the scavengers. Four legs, small hooves, no head. I scan the beach. No head…anywhere. I moved on to the next carcass as the couple start to walk towards me.
‘First time?’ The man hollers through the wind.
‘Did they fall from the cliffs?’
‘Can’t imagine them falling and ending up all the way over here.’
‘Can’t be a lion. They wouldn’t leave the meat like that.’
‘And only take the head.’
‘That one is headless too?’
‘Clean off like it just left the butcher.’
I look up at the path I just came down.
‘I don’t think it would be easy for any animal to drag them down here.’
‘Not unless they had opposable thumbs and some help.’
The wife shot her husband a look.
‘Have you seen this before?’
‘A headless goat? Not for years. Normally smaller animals, and ones that you wouldn’t have to steal from a farm. Rabbits, a coyote, seen a couple headless pelicans which are always harder to identify. But a goat? Not for years, not for years.’
‘Never found a head?’
‘Stopped looking after the first few summers. Goddamned Bohemians.’
‘Watch your mouth around the girl!’ The wife scolded.
‘What’s this got to do with the grove?’
‘What doesn’t it? Hard to believe it would be anyone besides those glorified Masons. Only happens in July anyhow. That’s the only time they get together, thankfully.’
‘Anyway, we should be getting the pup back home.’ The wife put her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
‘Have a nice run darlin’ and be safe.’
I watch them pull the mutt away towards the far end of the beach. Goat Rock stood tall in the distance. I imagined how it must have looked the night before, the full moon placed just above it, lighting up the beach below. The two headless goats perfectly aligned at its center. And he was right, the old man, their heads were clean off, like they came from a butcher.
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