Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

Have you been reading about the feet that have been washing up onshore in British Columbia? Frankly, I hadn’t heard anything about it until last week, when the sixth showed up and was later discovered to have been a hoax. But before that, since last August, five feet have washed ashore–all encased in socks and shoes. As yet, it is a complete mystery!

Bearing that in mind, this is what happened to me today…

After my morning run, I went home to change from my runners to my aqua shoes and then returned to the beach to walk along the surf while I drank a bottle of water. Down the stone stairs and across the sand, I walked toward the shoreline, and something about 10 feet out in the crystal clear water caught my eye… Cocked my head, squinted, muttered “What the…” Waded in.

It was a running shoe. Perpendicular, standing on its toe, bobbing a few inches below the surface in water about a foot deep.

My first thought: “How the hell do you lose one shoe and not notice?” I laughed and reached down to pluck it out of the water. As I picked it up, I was surprised by its heft, but thought it was heavy just because it was waterlogged. Pulled it from the water and then, after the water had run out and it was still unusually heavy–finally!–thought of the severed feet that had been turning up in just these circumstances out on the left coast. Jumped and yelped as I flung it away. With alarm bells clanging between my ears, I charged a few steps away, thoroughly soaking my shorts in the process.

Then, still feeling all screamy and shivery, I circled back around the shoe–which had gone back to its original position, bobbing with the toe touching the sandy bottom. I bent over, trying to peer inside the shoe.

It was a very David Lynchian moment and those are really best left for celluloid. Far too freaky for the real world. What would I find next?

I picked my way carefully back up the beach and down the street home, peering in the sand, rocks, and grass for any other body parts. Did we have a copycat killer ’round here?

Returned with my camera. Because, don’tcha know, Constant Reader, I knew I’d hafta tellya all about this.

Stood in the foot deep water, taking pictures of the shoe (f!o!o!t!?). And yes, there were others on the beach–a woman with her two kids swimming a few hundred feet away, another photographer meandering down the beach towards me, and lots of runners, walkers, and bikers up on the street-level hiking trail. I wondered what they thought–if they noticed at all–of me standing in the shallow water, apparently taking pictures of the sand.

I still didn’t wanna reach down and touch it again. Gah! I tried poking it with my toe to get a glimpse inside the shoe without having to get too close or get too good a look… I mean, potentially, I could get an unwelcome eyeful that would be burned into my memory forever. Imagine waking up with that in your head in the middle of the night. So I poked. Pushed it around. Started to giggle. Stood up and looked around. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to me (good).

“There’s no foot in there, you ninny. Just pick it up,” I sez.

I picked it up. Held it at arm’s length. Peered inside.

It was filled with sand. Not filled with foot.

Both a relief and a disappointment.