I dreamt I was kayaking with Ross Wolin and Tony Dawes in Kingston, but it wasn’t actually Kingston – it was one of those grandly deranged landscapes of memory that only a really good dream can cough up. This imposter Kingston was actually a strange version of Eglon Beach, with a freshly painted condominium complex where the old Brockman resort pier once ran out into the sound. The real-life creek isn’t navigable (although I do seem to remember getting a canoe through the culvert under Eglon road) but in dreamland, it was a broad, wandering waterway with a pebbled shore. The three of us kayaked upstream, paused to watch a bunch of kids having a party, and then paddled back down. Very relaxed, very pastoral.
I left my companions and was walking through the condominium parking lot, where several vans were parked. A handful of uniformed men with pocket protectors and clipboards were walking from door to door, talking to the residents. I was about to walk around one building and back to the waterfront, when I heard one of the uniformed men say into an open doorway: “Mr. Chuck Brockman?”
Now there’s a name to change a dream into a nightmare – even if you weren’t born a girl in Eglon between 1974 and the later 1980s, but especially if you were.
A sense of confusion followed. I felt compelled to find out if it really was THE Chuck Brockman, one of North Kitsap’s most accomplished banjo players and child molesters. But the landscape –- which had been relaxed and pastoral until this point -– became confused, inconsistent. I couldn’t find my way back to the right door. I started going from door to door, pounding on each one, waiting to see who answered. I’d find him if I had to pound on every damn door in the place.
Unfortunately, before I could find the man, I was grabbed from behind, handcuffed, and stuffed into the back of one of the vans in the parking lot (handcuffing — there’s a theme that I am not surprised to see recur in my thoughts). And sadly, that is where I spent the rest of the dream.