July Mini Event - Seaside Sway

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It’s the end of July. Summer is peaking, hitting its stride. In the forest, frogs sing and fireflies dance through the night, and dragonflies go about their business in the sun. In town, farmers roll up their sleeves and young ladies swap out their many layers for breezy floral gowns. And on the beach, swimmers take to the sea for water at its warmest and young crabs climb up from the sun-drenched sand. Kora’s glory at its finest!

For about a week now, a flier has been up on the community bulletin board. :

Midsummer Beach Festival!

Join us on July 21st and 22nd for our annual beach bash!

Organized by the Temple of Sacred Roots in tandem with Town Hall, all townsfolk are invited to join in for seaside festivities in honor of the height of summer. Activities will include:

• Live music (Sign-ups for performers will be available at Empty Pockets Music Bar)
• Locally made strawberry wine from last summer’s strawberries
• Beach pit barbecues for lunch on both days
• A hot food banquet for dinner on the 21st
• A fish fry breakfast on the 22nd
• Paper lantern float
• Beach games
• Tents and bed rolls for beach camping

We look forward to seeing you there!

And, as promised, the festival opens up on the afternoon of July 21st, where the smell of barbecue rises up from Tawny Beach. Tables sit on wooden plinths to avoid sinking in the sand, bearing fresh summer fruit and drinks. Pork, fish, and lamb roast in a sand pit. Enchanted barrels covered in magic frost keep frozen treats like orange juice shaved ice and strawberry sorbet cold. A station for assembling little wood-and-paper floating lanterns can be seen off in the distance and Cormac and the Banshees are setting up for their opening set. Tents and bed rolls have been set up toward the Marina. Literally everything is decorated with thin golden coins on strands of twine, sea shells, and sea glass. In the center of it all, stones have been laid into the shape of a massive compass rose, whose center houses the makings of a bonfire.

Those who were here last year will recognize that this festival is much larger than last year’s, and was not preceded with desperate pleas from Town Hall for help providing food and decor. It speaks plainly to the health of the town now. Even with all that has been going on, the growing population and renewed sense of community and purpose have improved matters around the island considerably.

Near the tent area, a family of crabs (one red, one blue, and three purple) can be observed. The small purple ones are poking each other with sticks. The Limoncello has made port, and Royal and his crew are splitting helper duty with the staff of Town Hall, and are dancing and partying the rest of the time. All is as it should be. For once, there is no dangerous surprise lurking in the shadows.

So, what’s on your agenda? During the day, volleyball, swimming, and a game that involves throwing small fabric sacks of dry lentils into wooden hoops in the sand can be enjoyed, alongside a plethora of frozen treats. At night, food and wine and lemonade are served at the banquet tables and lively music plays on the temporary wooden stage for dancing by firelight. There is also the lantern float, which encourages participants to send a glowing lantern out on the water in honor of the lost and the distant, ending the first night in a moment of peaceful sobriety. You may also notice a charming stranger milling around, cozying up to Royal, and drinking after nightfall--- a woman with dark olive skin, raven hair that soaks up the firelight, and rum brown eyes who wears a billowing blue dress and (whenever she hasn’t placed it onto someone else’s head for fun) a wide-brimmed black hat.

Then, at night, camp on the beach under the stars or head home by additional lantern light. The festivities will continue until the following afternoon! Feel free to share your beach fit in the fashion show thread below, as well. Enjoy!

Comments

[goodweather]

A note pulls away from the harmony, sending the others rushing to adjust.

Phil cocks his head, rather birdlike on its own. "Huh. Whaddya mean?"

[incomingchoppers]

"Well I mean just like I said," Radar tries to explain, with a few wobbly gestures for emphasis. "That's why they started calling me Radar. Like, uh. Like the choppers back home, I always hear 'em first even when they're a coupla miles away'n I can tell you where they're coming from'n how many wounded they got. Or like what everybody's talking about all the way back at the fire right now. Except I dunno if it's all talking or if it's thinkin', too, or if they haven't said it yet. That's the other thing. I hear that all the time too." Slightly pathetic: "But it's all kinda mixed up right now 'cause I drank so much."

And it's so loud.

[goodweather]

"Huh." Give him a moment to process that. "So you can hear what people think?"

'Telepath' is what comes to mind first, but that doesn't account for the choppers. Clairvoyant?

"I think I get that. It's a little different for me, like you said, but I can hear everybody back over there, too." He gestures at the greater body of the party. "And I'm pretty sure I can hear people back in town, too, but they're a little harder to pick out right now. I used to live in a place that was mostly closed in with about 60 other people, and that was really hard, especially when we all got stuck in a stone room. All the yelling and noise got so bad I fell down."

[incomingchoppers]

"Yeah, sometimes," he says, and then his eyes go huge with sympathy again. "Oh, jeez, that sounds awful. I mean even the mess tent starts hurting my ears on a bad day, at least I get a break from that'n the shelling doesn't come that close to us too much. An' at least here we got space."

He glances over his shoulder toward the bonfire. Almost immediately, he has to plant one palm on the sand so he doesn't fall over.

"Didja come up here 'cause it's quieter, too?"

[goodweather]

Phil's eye follows Radar's gaze. Wordlessly he stands up, walks, then plops down on his other side, blocking the view with his big feathery silhouette.

"Yeah. It's been a long day of socializing and I could use the break."

...

"Y'know, if you wanna go home, you can. You don't have to stick it out 'till the end."

[incomingchoppers]

Radar just barely manages to track Phil as he moves, swaying a little, blinking with bewilderment. "Why'd you get up'f you were just gonna...?"

Never mind. Maybe Phil just had to stretch his legs. Or his wings. Or... something. Anyway, Radar's gotta tell him some important stuff!

"S'okay, Mr. Rambo's got a few tents over there." He gestures vaguely, nowhere near the direction of the Baker Ranch campsite. "I'll go back soon. Maybe it won't be so loud. Anyway I gotta light a lantern for Cololonel Blake first."

[goodweather]

He hums. "That Henry? Yeah, uh... Hawk told me about him, too. Not a lot, just sort of mentioned him briefly, but he seems like he was nice." Had to've been, if Hawk liked him so much.

"D'you have one already? I can go and get one for you."

[incomingchoppers]

"Oh."

Yeah, that -- that makes sense if Hawkeye told him about the fight, too. Radar can feel his eyes stinging. "Yeah, he was. He was great. Our CO. He was kinda like my dad."

C'mon, Radar, don't start crying again. He tries to blink hard enough to get the stinging to stop. Mostly, it just makes him look even more myopic than usual. "No, I forgot to get one of them before I sat here. Y'sure you're okay getting me one?"

[goodweather]

Kid might need a moment to himself here, which is double the reason for Phil to leave him alone for a bit. He pats Radar's shoulder, standing up. "Sure, no problem. Just sit tight for me."

He turns. He almost flies--it'd sure be quicker--but decides to walk the distance instead, dragging it out for the his sake.

It's a short while before he comes back, an unlit one in his hands. "Hey. How are you holding up?"

[incomingchoppers]

If Radar remembers any of this tomorrow, he's going to feel pretty embarrassed. At least it's not as bad as crying about a bunch of glowing sea worms, but -- it's been months since the plane crash and he still feels like he got stabbed in the heart sometimes when he thinks about it. Shouldn't it be easier by now? Why does he still just want to crawl under his desk and hide half the time somebody so much as mentions Colonel Blake?

(Because it hasn't been that many months, all told. Because grief is never tidy. Because its most normal parts always feel the most abnormal when you're stuck inside them.)

He takes the time to pull off his glasses and really scrub his eyes good. Radar doesn't bother to put them back on right away; just takes in the incoherent, watercolor blur all around him, listening to the voices and thoughts and the sound of waves that will crash ashore fifteen seconds from now. The music trailing in Phil's wake recedes. Stupidly, that makes Radar tear up a little bit, too.

But by the time the music crescendos again, he's got his glasses back on and his eyes are -- mostly -- only red from the alcohol. He looks up, trying to focus on the lantern. "M'okay," he says staunchly. "How're you?"

It's polite to ask that when somebody asks how you're doing!

[goodweather]

"About as fine as I can manage to be." He holds it out for Radar to take, and a pen to write Henry's name. "I'd have gotten a lantern for myself too, so we could do it together, but I already sent mine out."

[incomingchoppers]

Clumsily, Radar accepts both pen and lantern.

"You made one for him too?" Oh, no, just when he thought he wasn't gonna cry anymore. Radar sniffles. "That's so nice. Y'didn't even know him."

Okay. Maybe -- maybe if he focuses real hard on writing on the lantern, he'll forget he's tearing up again. As slow and painstaking as he might've ever written something, one letter at a time: To: Lt. Col. Henry Blake. From: Cpl. Radar O'Reilly.

[goodweather]

Phil doesn't correct the kid in his state, just reaches out and gives him a firm, commiserative pat on the shoulder.

"I also made one for a bunch of old friends who are gone now. And, uh..." No, he doesn't think he'll bring up his weird situation with Rita, actually. He shakes his head. "I just hope they get it. Somewhere out there."

He steps forward, gesturing for Radar to join him at the water, where the waves cradle legs and the silt is like silk. Easier to get the lantern floating where it's a little deeper.

[incomingchoppers]

It takes a couple tries to get to his feet, but luckily, Radar can stay upright once he's there. (Mostly.) Wobbly, but with as much care as he took writing Colonel Blake's name, he makes his way to Phil's side.

"I hope so too," he whispers. "They. They gotta, right? Somehow? Maybe we can't leave yet but these can."

It makes sense in his head, even if he can't articulate it. It's like the way a screen keeps out flies, but if you stand right next to it in the rain, you'll still get wet. Maybe they're too big, too different, too alive -- even though they're all dead, too -- to get through the barrier just yet. But something smaller can.

The ocean moves a fresh layer of sand over his toes. It feels so much softer here than on dry land. Radar puts out a hand to brace himself against Phil, then leans to set the lantern afloat.

[goodweather]

He puts his hand over Radar's and watches the water take the lantern.

"One of mine was for my wife," he says. "I didn't send it out, because she's. Not dead, technically, at least I don't think she is. But."

It's a clear, dark night; the firmament of air and sea feel inseparable. The blue is endless.

"I'm so far away. I've been away from Earth for years. I don't know if I'll ever make it back."

[incomingchoppers]

"Oh," says Radar, very small. In the dim sameness of earth and sky, they might as well be deep underwater, two small lights lucky enough to bump into one another. Maybe that's all anybody is when they meet another person, isn't it? With the world so big, and all of them so small, any meeting is a minor miracle. His whole chest hurts with the weight of it.

He tries to twist his hand enough to give Phil's fingers a squeeze, without overbalancing right into the water. It... sort of works. At least he doesn't fall.

"We're gonna get home." It's not a lot louder, but it's much steadier. A soldier's hope, carried for years, even as other hopes come and go. "We will. The barrier's gonna come down'n Miss Mortanne'll, she'll fix it so we're all okay. Even if we still gotta couple more steps before we're home for good. We'll get there."

[goodweather]

“Oh, I know. The bigwigs here are the nicest I’ve ever run into so far. Everyone who wants to go will go. That’s not a problem.”

It just won’t be him.

…

He doesn’t voice that thought, because he doesn’t want to be that morose in front of a drunk kid who is Hawkeye’s friend, but it sticks stubbornly in his craw. You’d think he’d have more patience for becoming wayward after centuries of it. Honestly, all it’s really done is made him feel like he’ll never be home for longer than he’s adrift.

He squeezes Radar’s fingers back, even if it’s a little awkward. “You’ll get there.”

[incomingchoppers]

"We both will," he insists. He'd probably insist it even if he couldn't hear that circling refrain drifting through the melody of Phil's thoughts. It's what you say to everyone hurting: of course you'll make it home soon. Of course.

Sure, sometimes it's just a pleasant dream to soothe them in their worst moments -- but in this case, Radar really believes it.