The sound doesn’t escape the cove, the marine layer protects us from the man. The steep cliff rises up to stars in front of us, the ocean, unseen beyond. At 4 am the pacific ocean’s tide is out in the summer, the dunes roll away into the darkness. Drummers circle around bonfires howling, steadily drumming, faces orange and shiny brown in the firelight.
A small tent in the center of the dunes holds the only electric light on the beach. It is a flowing, moving, rainbow of texture against the roof of the small enclosure. A man in a baseball cap, low slung jaw, and calm face with a slightly turned up smile is playing a record with muted chords in it. As the chords filter into the bass bins, the sea of people dancing in the sand raise their hands into the night sky and cheer.
The sun breaks pink into the sliver of white glass between the distant purple sky and the black waters of the morning ocean. A voice sounds in the speakers: “With each new dawn I see the sun god rise.” Euphoria erupts across the dunes as people come running to gather closer to the sound of the voice. Drums beating, the spray of sand in the air, fires raging.
We are pagans, we are alive, we dance in the night while ordinary people sleep, repeating rhythms that drive music lovers insane after less than a minute, confounding their higher sense of art, drive us out of control with passion and celebration.
We have no name. We are secret. What we do, where we do it, how we do it, why we do it is nothing any of us care to discuss with the local news, or anyone at all. This is not something to talk about. It is something to do. Something to feel. Something to live.
We are alive.