“No lifeguard on duty.” Letters in once-bold red flaked away from chipped white paint. “Swim at your own risk.” Three white security gates stood sentry at the entrance to the beach. Empty. Shuttered. Birdie slowed her car, chewed her lip. It would still be safe to go in, right? Or should she just turn around? It’s fine. She didn’t even plan to swim.

With no one to wave her through, Birdie drove between the gate posts and turned right. Away from the main area with the nature center and concession stand. Down the narrow track of broken asphalt that led toward West Beach. Smaller, more isolated.

When she reached the parking lot, she pulled into a spot at the very front. Reversed. Decided on one further back, near the path. Bag slipping from her shoulder, Birdie locked the car and trudged toward the beach.

On a weekend in July, even the path would’ve been crowded with sand-sticky kids. Parents laden-down like human donkeys, desperate to reach either shore or car. On a late September Thursday, though, the path lay bare. Every picnic table empty.

Asphalt turned to sand under her feet as she passed another sign. The wind-faded, “Caution, unguarded beach,” guarded by a disgruntled crow. He cocked his head. Opened his black beak and cawed a single, rusty warning. Giving him a wide pass, she started across the wide expanse of bleached yellow.

Only four spots had been claimed, umbrellas and towels marking territory. Birdie settled across from an older woman by the water, becoming the fifth point of a star. Unfolding her chair, she sat, lowering herself almost to ground level, and took in a deep breath hoping to smell the ocean. Nothing. No seaweed brine, no salt in the air. That’s not right. Or was it? She didn’t know.

Maybe it had something to do with the tide. She’d never seen waves before with no… wave to them. The swells beaten down into gray-blue ripples. Ghost whispers where there should’ve been the giant’s heartbeat crash of water pummeling shore.

“Something’s not right,” she said under her breath. And regretted it. Her voice sounded wrong here. Out of place. No one else spoke. Not to each other, not on the phone. No music or voices on the radio. No seagull squawks, motors, horns. Only the beaten down ripples telling themselves to shh be quiet. Leaning back in her chair, Birdie closed her eyes against the flat white light of the sun.

A hushed kind of clacking caused her to squint them open again. A woman in a blue bathing suit navigated a drift of seashells on her way to the water. They shifted under her bare feet like baby teeth, clicking. She slip-skidded toward the shoreline, pinching the brim of her sun hat.

Maybe Birdie dozed a little. But maybe not. Her eyes cracked themselves open, peeking. The woman in blue waded further and further out, the tide receding as she approached. Drawing her in.

She drift-walked out toward the buoy, arms floating at her sides. Beyond the buoy, where boats would sometimes coast by, a shadow flickered below the surface. The malevolent glimmer of an oil spill. A school of fish or flotilla of seaweed. What’s that? There and gone in the darksome water.

Lifting her hand to block the white glare of the sun, Birdie squinted out at the stretch of gray-blue. Struggled up out of her low-slung chair. Sliced the soft pads of her feet crossing sand and shells. The woman in blue had nearly reached the buoy.

At her feet lay a horseshoe crab. Prone on its back, all twelve legs curled up into itself. Poor thing. All along the beach, on either side, dozens more. Dead little horseshoe crabs lined up on the shore. That isn’t right. Or was it?

When Birdie looked back to the woman in blue, she had disappeared. No woman. Only her sun hat floating on the surface. And the shadow slithering just underneath. Black swirls resolving into sea snakes. Into fingers beckoning.

It tired Birdie to hold her arm up, shielding her eyes, so she let it come down and rest at her side. No point now in standing here, so she turned and slid-stepped back to her chair. Sank down into the canvas seat.

A scratchy rustling to her side. Movement coming closer. The couple from under the beige umbrella passed by holding hands. Didn’t even glance her way. The bottoms of their bare feet whispered over the sand. When they crossed into the still water, it sounded much the same. Don’t. That was what she wanted to say to them. Don’t go in.

It took a long while for them to wade out to their knees. But the tide was coming in. Gray-blue currents crawling up the shore. Soon, it would reach the older woman in the green lounge. Legs stretched out toward the water. Reading. No, not reading. Her book lay flat, pages still in the dead air. She paid them no attention. Instead, she stared out at the horizon. At the waves that should’ve been there.

Above her, a lonely seagull circled a tidepool and dove. It swooped back up with something caught in its beak. Legs squirming out from the sides. The couple were up to their shoulders now. Close to the shadow. When they got back, she’d ask them what they saw. A school of seaweed or a flotilla of fish. 

The sun pressed against Birdie’s eyelids, weighing them down. She let them close. This time, she didn’t doze. She slept. The next time she opened them, some of the bright had bled out of the day. Sea stretched below sky, both the same unbroken shade of dust.

Birdie craned her head first over one shoulder, then the other. Everyone was gone. All of the beach chairs sat sagging. Abandoned. Maybe I should call someone. But maybe not. What would she say? She eased back in her chair. Better to wait. If something bad had happened – if anyone had drowned or gotten hurt – Birdie would’ve heard. The sun pinned her down, seeped into her blood. It’s fine.

Gray-blue currents stalked her toes, creeping closer. One lonely seagull hovered over the mirror-still surface then landed. It sat there like a perfect seagull statue, failing to bob on the absent waves. Then, like something strong had grabbed it from below, the bird was dragged down into the water. Not even a splash as it went under.

No, something is certainly not right here. While she’d watched the seagull, slow eddies had ghosted in and drowned Birdie’s feet. The shadow didn’t look like seaweed or fish anymore. More like oil or black fog. Twisted into faces.

A sweep of gray-blue slipped up to her thighs, her waist. It stole the banked heat of her body. But with the cold came a numb sort of nothing. Should she fight it? Try to get away? Maybe not. And it might be too late, anyway.

From behind her, a final, rusty caw. Not a warning this time, a lament.

Don’t worry. Birdie closed her eyes. It’s fine.

The tide lifted her off the sand, out of her chair. Into the deep. Where the shadow waited.