An Unfortunate Occurrence at Cythe Beach

People raised near the northeastern Atlantic coast form a unique kinship with the oceanic expanse. The proximity to those frigid waters inevitably leaves one questioning the breadth of Nature’s might. Whether this inquiry appears in the shadow of consciousness or the subconscious realm is left up to each individual’s mental sensitivities. The Atlantic Ocean’s enigmatic dignity can manifest for some as a flaming madness, and for others a freezing somatic void; regardless of how this investigation is processed, it always proves formative. For those who reside elsewhere and have yet to encounter such an entity, its influence will prove shockingly humbling. In one’s initial confrontation with such a power, a person should approach with slow, deliberate reverence. Ron and Steve Dunn were unaware of such warnings and arrived at Cythe Beach on the southern coast of Maine with a naïve vulnerability.

The Dunn brothers were born near Sweet Briar, North Dakota, and reared in a typical fashion for that region. Upon reaching institutional adulthood, both brothers secured well-paying jobs at Lynton’s food processing plant. Ron drove a forklift and was a skilled bulk-item picker and loader. Steve became a lackey for the OSHA reps, and this subservience propelled him into the role of lead safety inspector.

The brothers shared similar facial characteristics and could be easily recognized as relatives. They were each approaching forty years of age, with Steve being the senior by a year. The Dunn brothers were never much for outdoor activities like hunting, fishing, or skiing. They usually put family and financial concerns first. However, one spring, they decided to take a trip to Maine. This trip was supposed to celebrate Steve’s milestone fortieth birthday, but part of the planning also stemmed from an odd desire to fulfill some ambiguous male expectations. Neither brother had ever ventured east of Ohio, and as they neared middle age, both brothers felt a pronounced tug of wanderlust; material domestication taxed their egos.

They requested a week off in June, and after the request was approved, each purchased an expensive new fishing rod. An internet search found a hotel near Cythe Beach. This location stood out as an ideal setting because, according to their research, it existed outside the more populated tourist areas.

On June 8th, the brothers arrived at Logan Airport early in the morning; they rented a car and fought through aggressive traffic until they reached an open stretch of I95. Throughout the journey north, many varied landscapes filled Steve with fantastic and uneasy wonder. Lush spring vegetation ran along the interstate, and the dense seasonal growth gave him a new understanding of spring fever and Aphrodite’s allure. Ron was driving and hardly noticed anything beyond the reckless insanity of East Coast motorists. Upon crossing the Piscataqua River Bridge and entering Maine’s coastal region, a new and invigorating smell wafted into the car.

Steve said, “Can you smell it?”

“What, the ocean? Yeah. I smell it,” Ron replied.

“It is amazing.”

Ron sniffed, coughed slightly, “Yeah…well…it sure is something.”

Steve was unfazed by his brother’s indifference to the new sensual experiences and enjoyed the remainder of the drive in silence.

The brothers arrived at Cythe beach around dusk; stopping at a roadside shack, they ate fresh steamers for the first time. They were exhausted from travel but felt compelled to take in the sights. They proceeded to wander the town a bit, and a few beers later, the tipsy pair strolled to their hotel room. Hoping to be up and fishing early, they set their alarm for 5 A.M.

The brothers overslept and did not reach the beach until late morning. The tide was receding to the horizon, and neither brother had anticipated such alien landscapes. The visual delights melded seamlessly with the cool morning mist. A hallucinogenic rapture befell Steve as the desert of rocky beige sand and clumps of greenish-brown seaweed stretched before him. A hazy grey mirror undulated slowly in the distance, framing the entire vista.

Evaporating mist, stark landscapes, and that murky reflection made the whole experience seem dreamlike and limitless. High cumulus clouds rained hundreds of herring gulls upon glassy tidepools that marred the areas closest to the surf. The brothers carried their brand-new fishing poles and a bucket of bait shrimp down to the water. They began casting with an earnest exuberance rarely seen in adults, but mild rolling waves gently washed their hopefully cast bait back to the shore. After several failed attempts, Ron became annoyed with the seeming futility of fishing through the breakers. He had noticed a large rock pier on their way down to the water and suggested they try their luck on the jetty. Neither brother had ever been on a jetty, and despite the scene’s charming influence, Steve had some misgivings. Several minutes of abuse and goading ensued and only ceased when Ron’s idea prevailed. They picked up their bait and headed toward that rocky pier.

This jetty was in bad shape, as vast spaces and inconsistencies characterized the jumble of rocks. The jagged edges of the granite were all pitched up at very extreme angles; the sharp stone was slick with rockweed and seawater. The brothers lugged their gear up one of the more accessible sides, and once upon the jetty’s surface, they proceeded forward with clumsy movements reminiscent of slow-motion “extreme” hopscotch.

Steve said, “Good thing we didn’t bring the beers; walking back buzzed would suck.”

Ron was struggling with his footing and, due to this, could only manage a weak grin at Steve’s remarks. A long trek ensued, and the further they traveled down the jetty, the larger the gaps between rocks became. These gaps became so massive in places that both brothers resorted to crawling and clinging when their confidence failed them. The bait bucket jostled several times, and some lucky shrimps sloshed out of the bucket and gained their freedom in the cracks and crevasses below.

The brothers would reach a final and significant barrier before the jetty’s tip. An exceedingly large gap blocked their way, and a balance-shifting jump would be required to travel forward. Steve executed his acrobatic feat successfully, but Ron failed and suffered scraped knees, wet boots, and a bruised elbow. The boys maintained a pretence of good humor and laughed, continuing the self-imposed ruse.

At the tip, the brothers were surrounded on three sides by Atlantic waters, and on the fourth side stretched nearly a mile of slipshod crags and rockweed. Negotiating the structure gave them a sense of accomplishment and bolstered their spirits; they began fishing again. This time, the bait obeyed, and the shrimp at the end of their hooks bobbed in the cloudy water. Initially, they were comforted by their isolation, and a sense of ease overtook the travelers. An hour passed, and despite no luck on the fishing front, the remainder of the morning had a sense of that often-elusive vacation tranquillity.

The tide was coming in as noon approached, and Steve, picking up on the changing circumstances, began to perceive that something was amiss about their surroundings. This bolt of anxiety shook the cobwebs of his placid veneer. He noticed that the herring gulls, which were so prevalent earlier, had disappeared, and no other birds were fluttering around either. He also realized that no people were on the beach and no boats were in the water. Panicked desolation inundated him. He felt festooned on this granite.

Steve rotated his head and scanned the skyline. He was trying to remain calm despite an increasing sense of dread. Agoraphobia had implanted hooks in him, and Steve wished he could see just one living thing. He believed that a single reassuring sign of life would force the doom that throbbed in his heart to subside. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and repeating the scan, Steve caught sight of a lone herring gull thrashing in the water. He at first felt relief, but something about how that gull flailed was unnatural.

The gull stretched its neck and beak to capacity. It clawed and scratched at the sky. It cried out and tried to kick away from a large patch of white foam that churned beneath it; each successive kick and flail of the bird dyed the foam underfoot a little pinker. Steve strained his eyes for a better look, and the gull seemed to be getting crudely shredded. Steve Slaped Ron on the arm and pointed towards the melee. Ron looked up in time to see the gull torn from the sky. The bird dropped down like a ripe tomato into a blender. Viscera and feathers flew into the air. The foamy patch turned dark red from the animal’s blood, but instantly, it faded pink and eventually reverted to its original white. Ron dropped his pole into the ocean, sprang to his feet, and shouted, “What was that!”

Steve shook his head in silence, mouth agape, and stared straight ahead at the foam. The patch spread toward the jetty, and the Dunn brothers stood transfixed by the motion. Ron called out to Steve several times and eventually snapped him from his daze. By the time they had collected themselves, they had become encircled by this shapeless mass.

The foam was thick on the three sides closest to the Atlantic, and on the jetty side, it slipped insidiously between the cracks and crevices of that rock terrace. Ron composed himself and tried to comfort his brother.

He blurted out, “Fish sometimes feed like that.”

Seeing his attempt fail, he added, “Bluefish run in large schools up here in the Atlantic.”

Steve ignored his brother and could not shake the horrible fate of that gull. He wasn’t an experienced fisherman or familiar with the creatures of the Atlantic, but he was sure that no school of fish had destroyed something in that manner.

Steve examined the movement of the foam, and although it could pass for any normal spume, its very presence unnerved. The loose form of the thing was obscured in some ways, vivid in others. Its size was limited to the area around the jetty, but the foam seemed to stretch for miles across the horizon and plunge toward the depths. Disturbed and confused, the brothers agreed that whatever had happened, they should return to the beach. Forgetting their gear, they began their journey, but after retreating only a few feet, they reached the large gap where, earlier, Ron had failed his jump.

The brothers glanced downward and saw that the vast gap was filling with the strange white substance. The foam popped and hissed like sharp seltzer. After moments of joint inspection, the brothers noticed the foam shifting and moving independently of the currents. Steve pointed out that portions of the bubbling mass were actually moved directly against the tide.

“It is pushing itself further into the cracks.”

Ron gazed for several seconds. He noticed the impossible movements and began to perceive large, sinister indents forming on parts of the textured water’s surface.

Steve was sensitive to the peril and would not move forward, but although terror-stricken, Ron put on a calmer front. He had previously missed the jump, and failure weighed heavily on his mind. Ron bent down for a closer inspection. He could see shapes amid the near-frantic fizzle of the foam. Steve yelled for him to stand back, but it was too late, and Ron, urged on by some strange hypnotic terror, pushed his thick, trembling hand toward the substance. Once his fingers contacted the foamy mass, the froth lunged forward out of that crevice like a ravenous beast. The anguine strike sent heavy froth droplets cascading onto Ron’s forearm. Any bare flesh that came into contact with this liquid exploded into a vibrant torrent of blood. Ron’s hand and half his forearm disintegrated, and Steve looked on with paralytic inaction. The concussive force of the assault knocked Ron backward, and he barely had a moment to register the pain of the injury. He staggered, lost his footing, and tumbled off the jetty into the mass that waited below. Ron’s body erupted when it hit the surface. Gore shot up like a geyser. The deep red foam sloshed from the impact.

Steve crouched alone, besieged from all sides as an oceanic nightmare digested the debris that once was his brother, too shocked to mourn and too disoriented to exercise sound judgment. Steve tried to halt his hyperventilating. At length, he pulled himself together long enough to formulate an ill-conceived plan; Steve decided that he was going to run for it. He moaned in a burning terror and mulled over each step and possible slip in his mind. He wanted to plot the safest route forward and looked directly down the jetty. He tried to envision each granite block as part of an elaborate grid or pattern. He anticipated which areas would be more treacherous and made mental notes; comfortable with the route, he sprang over that initial gap and sprinted toward shore.

Each step landed accurately, as the remaining Dunn brother was suddenly sure-footed as a goat. He dashed from one flat stone to the next as the Atlantic rushed by his peripheral vision. Huffing his way along, he assumed pursuit and kept his eyes on the path forward. The foam splashed and sprayed curls upwards with malice as it tried to keep pace. With each bound, Steve could hear the squelching from his rubber-soled tennis shoes on the wet granite. The sunbeams reflecting off the sea combined with his perspiration, stinging his eyes. His lungs, inflamed by heavily salted air, resonated with a sharp pain as he attempted deep inhalations. Despite his shaken state, he soon became aware of the nearing shore and thought the sandy beach before him was his liberator.

He took his eyes off his footing and turned his head back with the hopes of glancing at his distance from the foam. He was relieved to see his pursuer had fallen far behind, but turning his gaze proved fatal for Steve; the instant he stopped paying attention to each step, his left sneaker found a slippery, angular stone, and he toppled forward into a shallow chasm. His head met a nasty edge and cracked open from the impact. The resulting whiplash snapped his neck. Steve’s body landed with an echoey thud. The trailing foam met his remains with greedy hunger, and Steve’s body suffered atomization in an instantaneous scarlet flash.

The hotel the Dunn brothers lodged in charged Steve’s debit card for the week’s stay. According to the terms of service, additional fees were applicable for failure to follow check-out procedures and luggage disposal. The foam, temporarily sated, has long since floated back to the cold existential void of deep Atlantic waters.

Two fishing poles and a bucket of rotten bait still sit at the tip of the jetty.