Beneath The Sand
To: Whom it may concern,
I found this journal lying next to a surfboard under the Hermosa Pier. My gut says it should go
to the FBI or other federal agency, but I don’t know how to locate such entities. I read it, but it
makes little sense to me. Thought it was best to give to local law enforcement.
Detective Marty Hedstrom opened the journal and began reading.
June 3rd, 1984
Oh, where do I begin? Nice beach weather today. I didn’t go, but I sold three paintings.
That’s a blessing. Rent is two days late. Nothing cheap about a condo near the beach, not in
I’ve to decided write everything down . . . just in case, I guess. I’m not one for diaries,
though I did keep one in the war, but that’s’ another story.
I suppose I’m being precautious. That’s okay, and maybe it’s nothing, just an old man’s
imagination, but some strange thi ngs have happened lately. So I thought keeping a . . . what do
they call it now? A memoir? A journal? Something like that could . . . help? I suppose if you’re
reading this, you might know.
Also, given these strange incidents, I need to cancel this weekend. See, they i nvited me
to put my a rtworks on Redondo Beach for some festival. They, being the Lions Club or
Chambers. One of those city things. Good money, exposure, etc. Easy right?
Not exactly. I won’t go to the beach.
I’ll tell you more tomorrow. It’s late. Just got home from Mickey’s Pub. Had the fish
special and a few bottled beers. Chatted with TJ about this and that. He bartends on
weeknights. Found he’s getting married. Good for him. Nice kid, though he thinks I’m a crazy
old fart, one step from the streets, two from the grave. Don’t matter.
It’s two o’clock, and I’m still home, cleaning. It’s impossible to keep up with all this sand.
I have to figure out where it’s all coming from. (Yes, the beach. I know. Don’t be smart.) I’ve
been thinking it trickles through the roof, and today I had all the intentions of inspecting it, but I