The Old Blog in the Desert

I’ve told this story a handful of times over the years, usually when somebody’s talking about the strange things you see when you’re just minding your business. And every time I think of it, I swear I can still smell that briny, kelpy air rolling off the Pacific like it’s trying to shake the dust off my boots.

It was one of those late-afternoon drives where the sun hangs low and buttery, the kind that makes even a tired highway look like it’s dipped in warm honey. I was cruising past DeMartins Beach, windows down, radio humming something older than I am, when I caught that shimmer of silver-blue to my left.

The tide was sliding in, soft and steady, smoothing the sand. It was nothing out of the ordinary, at least not at first.

Then I saw them.

At first, I figured it was driftwood bobbing around in the break. But driftwood doesn’t march in formation, lift its head and blink at you, and doesn’t look at a wave like it’s something to stroll through on a lazy Sunday.

A whole herd of deer, maybe eight or nine of them, were picking their way straight through the surf as though they’d taken a wrong turn at the forest and said, “Ah well, ocean’ll do.”

Their coats were damp and glinting, their hooves tapping against the wet sand like dainty little percussionists keeping time with the tide. The waves weren’t exactly gentle either; they came in with their usual salty enthusiasm, thumping around their legs, curling up their sides.

I pulled over so fast my tires skittered on the gravel, and I remember blurting out to nobody in particular, “Now what in the wide world do you think that’s about?”

I scrambled to the back seat, grabbed my camera, back when we used those sturdy little bricks with buttons that clicked like a happy typewriter, and hustled toward the overlook. The deer didn’t mind me one bit, as they kept moving, one step after another, steady as church ladies in a bake-sale line.

The scene was so quiet it felt like the world had briefly disappeared. You could hear the slap and hiss of the waves, the soft clop of hooves, and somewhere above, a gull complaining loudly about who-knows-what.

I snapped picture after picture, trying to catch every angle, the soft curve of their necks, the spray kicking up around their ankles, the way their ears flicked back every time a wave said hello a little too forcefully. One young buck kept stopping to stare at the water like he couldn’t decide if it was friend or foe.

I told him, “Buddy, that’s how I feel about Tuesdays,” and I swear he understood me.

Eventually, the herd made it past the break and wandered back up toward the dunes, shaking off the seawater with that casual dignity only deer can manage. Within minutes, they were back among the brush and shadows, and the beach went back to pretending it was just a beach.

I stood there for a long while, camera warm in my hands, heart fuller than I expected. Some moments sneak up on you like that, quiet as a feather but heavy enough to stay with you for years.

I didn’t know then that I’d lose the photos somewhere along the way. Box misplaced, negatives gone rogue; who knows. Life’s funny like that; it lets you keep the moments but not always the evidence.

And sure, I wish I had those pictures now. I’d frame at least one of them, maybe stick it on the wall right by the kitchen window where the winter light falls softly in the mornings.

But truth be told, the memory’s still as sharp as the day it happened, the shimmer of the water, the hush of the air, the impossible sight of deer walking through the waves like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe, some things should be left right where they are, and not in a file, not in a frame, but tucked inside you like a secret worth revisiting whenever the day gets a little too noisy.

And every time I think of those deer, I can’t help smiling and saying, “Well now…would you look at that.”