The Last Man on Earth (or so it seemed)

Around these parts, once the last suggestion of summer leaves for more southern climes, folks around here perform an exodus as if they were fully expecting an imminent, winter-long convention of mastodons and t-rex at Wild Dunes. To say this place becomes a ghost town is, in truth, doing a disservice to ghosts because this place would make even ghosts feel a tad lonely. We are told that one-quarter of property owners live here full-time, but I’m convinced either that this is a grotesque overstatement or these guys are most comfortable riding out winter in their basements, far from human view, madly at work on the great American novel or, perhaps, a challenging video game.

So -- tonight, as Mojo and I took our evening constitutional, I was struck by the notion that it would not be such a reach to play the role as last man on planet earth. We wandered empty street after empty street, and as the twilight gave way to darkness, I was reminded again how resoundingly black it gets here with street lights appearing maybe once every half mile. We ventured down to the ocean because from a block away you could hear the waves crashing, and this was most certainly worth a view. It was the kind of sound that made you think that something important was happening there. There was but one soul on the beach, a truly forlorn looking cyclist leaning into the wind, which was now just a bit shy of furious. He could not have been enjoying himself. Otherwise, the expanse was free of any life form. Just the waves, the sand, the full moon and Mojo and me. The day had played out in a way that invited this air of isolation as the weather gurus spoke of high winds, pounding rain, flooding, severe thunderstorms, and even some tornado warnings. It was a day best suited to browsing Amazon.com in search of a well-priced ark.

While the streets were empty, there were actually a few cars that ventured by, their lights an annoying distraction from my last man on earth fantasies. An intrusion, really. May I say that Mojo could not have been more pleased? Or, that he could not have been more oblivious to the encroaching darkness which made him all but invisible. As usual, he pranced through our entire human-free walk, leash firmly planted in his mouth as if to make sure I understood that it was he, not I, who was taking the other for a walk.

As serene and uncomplicated as this walk was, I would not wish for this experience every night. I am far too social for that. I enjoy the repartee with total strangers, some with dogs, some without. It doesn’t matter.

I do not want to be the last man standing, thank you very much.