Fort Vodka

I came across a plastic bottle of vodka, Blue Skyy brand, gallon size, dangling inside a driftwood fort. It hung from a colored rope, lost boat rope, and swung gently in the breeze with a real hanging knot, expertly tied. A hangman’s noose! I’d never seen a driftwood fort used as a gallows, but here it was, and I sort of dug it. There is always something new with each fort. That’s why I investigate every one I encounter and build them everywhere I ramble.

Mist and gray enveloped the area. Pelicans loped out to sea. A freighter approached the bar. The scent from the wrack line was heavy with decay. A few cormorants flew here and there, no doubt refugees from the nearby shotgun slaughter to save fake hatchery salmon from evil cormorant purloining. Did you know that there exists a human being, perhaps even doubling as a trained biologist, living in the watershed, who is paid by the state to shotgun nesting cormorants on a fake island at the mouth of the Columbia River? So far this human being as racked up over 2600 kills.

I’d like to interview this person in his home, see how he decorates it, listen to her tastes in music, learn what she eats for breakfast to fuel up for the murder spree. Stare into the face of their children watching animated movies featuring clever and adorable avian life. I’ll even pet their dog.

What a party it must have been around the beach bonfire, with cool people, with Blue Skyy, belting from the bottle, and retelling old fraternity and sorority stories they barely recall. I bet they never wondered why there was an extra “y” in Sky. A cunning ad man probably dreamed up while backpacking in a wilderness with decent WI-Fi.

I shored up the fort and left my cosmic fort calling card. I moved north down the beach and gathered up a few limpets to add to the 10,000 I already own. The mist picked up. I removed my stocking cap and let the moisture fall on me. I caught mist in my hands and rubbed it into my face. I sat down on a driftlog and ate a breakfast of cheese, pear and peanut butter. In the distance, I saw a bald eagle perched on a root wad. I looked down to my right and noticed a pint, liquor-shaped bottle buried halfway in the sand. I presumed more vodka. Driftwood Fort Vodka—damn! I liked the sound of that brand. But we would spell it right and put a fort haiku on the back label. No #.

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