Cracked Glass

Nobody ever came over to this side of the island anyway, and that's the way I liked
it. Screw them ! People in general, nosey people especially ! Stay the hell away
from my little twenty acres of solitude ! Stay the hell away from me! Go pry into
someone else's life, but stay the hell away from me !
Bet you can tell I'm not the easiest person to get along with right ? Just the way
I am nowadays, . . just the way I am. Haven't done much with my life since she
died, . . don't really care either. It's like that song "Losing My Religion", I guess I
just don't believe in much anymore. I "exist" out here, with my small retirement
check and social security, but that's all I do, . .exist. Wouldn't call it living because
I haven't been alive for years really. But I do exist.
I write some nights, when I need to let things go, so that's why you're reading this
now. Thought I'd get it down on paper before I begin to forget that it ever
happened. Maybe you can make some sense out of it, because I sure can't. And I
don't know why it happened to me . . . but it did . . .so here's the story . . believe
it or not !

Like I said, nobody ever came over to this side of the island. Too windy for them.
Too blustery. Too rocky. Too deserted.
But I came over here all the time. Walked the narrow paths, climbed the cliffs,
listened to the heavy surf pound into the shore, and pretty much kept to myself
and minded my own business . . . until I found the first bottle ! It had become
wedged between two moss-covered rocks on the beach and I was about to break
it by kicking another rock into it . .when I saw something inside the bottle ! Now
I was thinking to myself, "yeah, right, a message in a bottle". But I bent down and
picked it up anyway and sure enough . .there was something that looked like a
piece of paper inside ! I decided to wait until I got home to try to open it.

Back in my cottage I cleaned up the bottle somewhat and found it to be nothing
more than an easily affordable wine from a west coast vineyard. A red-stained cork
appeared to be keeping the contents safe and dry. Carefully I worked the cork free
and set it on the table. Using the eraser end of a new pencil, I pulled the paper
inside down close to the lip of the bottle, and continued to make small circles with
the eraser until the paper became small and tight, able to slide through the open
bottle top and out. I picked up the paper, opened it, and read :

IF ANYONE FINDS THIS MESSAGE, PLEASE HELP ME. I AM BEING HELD AGAINST
MY WILL. PLEASE CALL THE AUTHORITIES.

A phone number followed.

And I didn't have a phone !

i woulda just smashed it on the nearest rock then read the message...which i would probably toss into the ocean. Who knows how old it is and if it was a joke.

also there is not enough information in the letter

great story, entertaining read

"We're sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is
no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

"We're sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is
no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

Yeah, I made my way into town and tried to call the damn number but got
nothing. Didn't surprise me. Probably some kind of joke anyway. Thought
about telling the police but didn't want to make an ass of myself. Besides,
I usually stay as far away from cops as I can get . . don't like them much.

Bought some groceries and headed back to the island.

Over the next few weeks I walked the rocky beaches on the far side of the
island every day . . . and just about every day I found another bottle !
They were always the same kind of bottle, the same brand name and the
same type of wine. And every one of them had a damn message in it !

At first, all of the messages were identical, the same as that first one that
I had found. But during the second week the messages became a little
more intense. Creepy even.

IF ANYONE FINDS THIS MESSAGE, PLEASE HELP ME. I AM A PRISONER IN
A HOUSE SOMEWHERE NEAR THE OCEAN. IT'S AN OLD, THREE-STORY,
WHITE HOUSE THAT SITS ALONE UP ON THE CLIFFS THAT OVER-LOOK
THE BAY. THEY FOUND MY CELL-PHONE AND SMASHED IT TO BITS.
PLEASE FIND ME.

Altogether, I found four bottles with that exact message sealed inside. I
now began to search for the source. As I was the only inhabitant on this
side of the island I quickly assumed that the bottles were coming from the
other side. I rode my bike all over the place looking for a white, stand-
alone house that over-looked the bay, but found nothing. I visited town
more often than not with the notion that the house had to be around there
somewheres. It wasn't. At last I tired of the silliness, broke down and
walked into the police station and told them everything I knew. What a
mistake that was ! Just as I imagined, they thought the whole thing was a
gag of some kind, even after I showed them the messages. I could tell that
I now had become the butt of some big joke and this pissed me off. I
walked out of their office determined never to go back, and I could still
hear them laughing as I headed back home. Screw them !

Very intriguing and it definitely caught my interest. Gonna finish it? Pleeease?

Either way, S&F! Good stuff man, good stuff!

A whole week went by this time before I found another bottle.

TO YOU WHO MAY HAVE FOUND MY MESSAGES . .KEEP LOOKING FOR ME!
I THINK THEY'VE DISCOVERED WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING ! THEY'VE MOVED
THE PILE OF EMPTY BOTTLES. I HAVE TO FIND THEM ! IT'S MY ONLY
CHANCE.

Back at my cottage, I researched currents, and tides, and surf in general.
Specifically though, . . how they reacted to the rocky coast of my island.
I learned that a very strong current flowed from the mainland down to the
the outer-most tip off of my end of the island. So conceivably, one could
throw something into the ocean fifty miles north on the mainland and the
current would bring it down to the island, again specifically, right to my
front door on the rocky shore ! Damn, it was hard to pin down, but there
it was !
A local map showed me the probable location, Bullhead City up on the
continent !
Now at least I had a starting point. I'd begin my search there and work my
way back down.
The next day I packed a huge lunch in my backpack, rode my bike to the
ferry stop, and sailed on over to the mainland, where I rented a car and
drove towards Bullhead City, as excited as I could remember !

Old Highway 101 wound around and through Bullhead City but mainly it
stayed near the coast, and that's where I wanted to be. I followed it into
a small beach community and past a very richy-rich housing development.
When we started to climb hills I knew this was where I should start looking.

I spent the next five hours going up and down every damn hill that over-
looked the bay. Found a bunch of possibles, but then again I really didn't
have much to go on. A white, three-story house, off by itself on the cliffs.

Near the end of the day I spotted what I was looking for . . well almost.
It was a white house, off of the beaten track, sitting right on top of the
cliffs! I pulled the car over under some trees and shut it off. Getting out, I
grabbed my camera and began taking pictures of the property, from all
kinds of different angles. A chain with a huge lock extending the width of
road prevented anyone from driving down closer, but I stepped over it and
walked down towards the house as if I owned it ! Only then did I see that
it was a two-story, not a three. And that's when a man stepped from the
bushes and asked, "What the hell are you doing mister ? Can't you read
the "No Trespassing" signs ?"

The shotgun in his hands, pointed at my chest, rammed home his warning
with even more conviction.
Before I could say one word he said, "Mister, I don't want to know who you
are, I don't want to know what you're selling, I don't want to hear your
lame excuses, I just want you gone . . . do you understand me ?"

I shook my head yes.

"And take that roll of film out of that camera now, and give it to me !"

"I'm just shooting some pictures of the coastline, nothing to worry about."

"Take the film out and throw it over here. Now !"

I complied.

"Now get out of here mister, and don't come snooping around here again!"


The drive back to the ferry was filled with things I'd wished I'd said, but
didn't. "Are you talking to me?" "Are ju f**king talking to me ?"
Same with the ferry ride back to the island. And the same with the bike
ride back home. Darkness was coming and the night would be cool. I
thought about the messages in the bottles. I thought about this whole
mess. What would I do now ? I thought about that damned white house
just before I drifted off to sleep.

For the next two weeks I walked every path I could on this side of the
island . . . and found nothing. Every path eventually led down to the shore
and into the cold, frothy water, but it seemed the harder I looked the less
I found. No bottles of any kind ! Nothing !
On the first day of week three the rains came. The weather turned colder
and windier and I found it difficult to convince myself that I had to go out
and search for a stupid wine bottle arriving by heavy surf that probably
wasn't there anyway ! But . . I did convince myself. And I found myself
out in the heavy rain with my sailor's rain gear on . . .when I noticed a
bottle bobbing up and down . . . riding ever closer to shore on one wave
after another. This was the first one I had actually "seen" arrive, and I'll be
damn if it didn't float right up to my feet and stop in the sand ! I bent down
and scooped it up before it could be washed back out to sea. Putting it
quickly into a deep side pocket I headed back home. The wind and pelting
rain pushed me along, and I was at my cottage in no time.

After downing a shot of cognac and fixing myself a hot cup of tea, with
extra honey, I sat down to examine this latest bottle in detail. The first
thing I noticed was that it was a different brand. It was still a wine bottle,
but it was not the same grower. It was still the same type of wine though,
a Zinfandel, but this was a white Zinfandel . I held the bottle up to the lamp
and sure enough, there was a piece of paper sealed inside. I took my time
opening it, maybe because of the shivers, and maybe because I was
getting weirded out again !

TO YOU WHO MAY HAVE FOUND MY MESSAGES . . . I APOLOGIZE. I WAS
BORED AND ALONE AND MADE UP STORIES AND PUT THEM IN BOTTLES
AND THREW THEM INTO THE OCEAN . . . JUST BECAUSE. MAYBE I'M AN
OLD CRAZY LADY WHO'S DRUNK TOO MUCH OF HER FAVORITE WINE. I
DO ENJOY THIS RED ZINFANDEL VERY MUCH, IT IS THE ONLY WINE I
DRINK. I PROMISE I WILL SEND NO MORE MESSAGES IN A BOTTLE !

I sat there dumbfounded . . . then read the message again !

And then I proceeded to get drunker than a bar full of tattooed sailors.

It was over ! Some old mental case had taken me for a ride and God
knows I'd taken the bait and run out the line ! How stupid can a man get ?
I drank some more, beating myself up for being so gullible, so dumb ! I
looked in the mirror and laughed at the dumb bastard looking back at me.
What a joke ! After awhile I just let the rain put me to sleep.

When I rolled over and fell off the couch at 03:30, I knew I had drunk way
too much. When I opened the door and headed out to the outhouse, with-
out my raincoat, I knew I had drunk way too much. Soaking wet, I took
shelter in the outhouse and took care of business. I waited for any kind of
a let-up in the rain but none came, so I started running like hell for the
house . . . and promptly slipped and fell into a deep puddle of water. Now,
now, now . . now I knew I had had too much to drink ! I was soaked and
cold and as grouchy as ever when I finally did make it back into the house.

I built the fire back up in the fireplace, put a fresh pot of coffee on, and
went to change into some dry clothes. As I was pulling on my dry, warm
socks I had my first flash . . . of those stupid wine bottles ! They all had
been the same until . . this last one ! The last one had been different, a
different winery ! And it had been a white Zinfandel ! All the others had
been red Zinfandels !
And what had that crazy lady said ? That red Zinfandel was her favorite,
and the only wine she drank ? So . . why the hell did she send this last
bottle ? It didn't make sense ! It didn't make any sense at all . . unless,
unless someone had made her send the message ! And maybe she was
trying to encrypt another message . . in the message ! Maybe they told
her about the prowler . . about me . . and maybe they thought this last
message would discourage me ! Too many maybes !
I needed some of that fresh coffee !

In the morning I was out the door and headed to town, oblivious to the
rain and wind. I took the ferry over to the mainland and it was the first
time I ever felt even a pang of sea sickness in my entire life. The storm
tossed the ferry around like a leaf . . but we made it. Upon landing I
rented a car and headed towards Bullhead City.

Hours later I was happy and exhausted. The term "a matter of public
record" always seemed to me to mean that you could walk in some place
and easily find what you were looking for, but I learned the hard way that
"easy" doesn't fit into the equation. I did however, find what I was looking
for. From maps and deeds and zones and parcels, I found out that the
owner of the white house up on the cliffs was a Mrs. Angelica Dubois. And
I also learned that there were actually two houses on that property, the
second lying further down the road and even nearer to the cliffs than the
front house ! And it was a three-story jobber !

And I found out that Mrs. Dubois had died three years ago !

I worked my way over to the coast highway again, heading up to the top
of the cliffs where that white house was sitting and drove past it a couple
of times to see if I could spot any activity. Didn't know why I was still into
this thing, but it seemed there were still a few questions that didn't have
any answers. Like, . . if old lady Dubois died three years ago, who the hell
was living in her house now ? And who had been sending the bottles with
the messages inside ? And were they still in need of help ?
Didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out something was amiss.

The rain and wind hadn't let up all day, but now I was using it to my
advantage. I figured nobody really wanted to be out in this mess anyways,
so now might be a good time to do some more poking around. I drove
down as close to the water as I could get and parked under a big pine
tree. My thinking was that if someone in that back house could toss a
bottle into the ocean, then it had to be right on the shoreline near the
water. I hiked around the point, making my way through the rocks until I
was sure I was right underneath where the white house should be. Looking
up through the rain I saw it, sitting right on the edge of the cliff face, about
150 feet up. Three-stories all right, charming and a faded white finish !

So I asked myself, " Now what ?" Scanning the rocky wall that led right up
to the bottom of the house, I thought I detected a faint path that might be
do-able. I adjusted my backpack and said "What the hell !" And I began
to climb.