He abruptly left home ten years earlier. Events of the summer following his high school graduation changed the direction of his life forever. He had suffered a humiliation that proved too unbearable to remain in Shipwreck Shores. He otherwise wouldn’t have entertained military service, but it suddenly seemed the quickest road out. With his camera bag and backpack, he took a bus to his granddad’s place to lick his wounds and enlist in the Marine Corps. Thinking back then that he was leaving for good, today, former Marine and current photographer for Condé Nast Traveler, Wes Markley, was back. It was time to put old ghosts to rest.
The seaside hamlet got its name from an iron freighter beached there by a hurricane over a hundred years ago. Driving into town, Wes made a bee line to that icon of his youth. Standing in its shadow again seemed surreal, a bittersweet moment, even after all this time. Placing a hand flat against the cold metal hull, many memories come flooding back: the spooky tales told around kitchen tables and campfires, meant to scare him as a boy from entering the potentially dangerous vessel; how later, he and middle school buddies snorkeled around its hull, gazing schools of fish swimming freely in and out of holes in its hull; how as an adolescent, it became a haven for hanging out with his besties – a seaside hamlet’s answer to a treehouse. Wes laughs now remembering how they kept watch by a porthole, passed around adult magazines, and talked smack about girls in loud, giggling, whispers.
Memorial Day weekend, close to where he stood, was where he met the first love of his life, or so he had thought. It was on a daybreak stroll along the beach scouting for that perfect shot before the crowds came. Wes had an artful eye for capturing sea life and beach artifacts on film. And suddenly, there she was in all her artful beauty. Little did he know she would become the reason he left home. His mind drifts back to that summer.
Wes’ boldness in walking up to her and introducing himself surprises him. “Well, Wes,” the goddess replies, “nice to meet you. I’m Mary Ann.” He learns she is from upstate; her family has a summer cottage here, and she, too, just graduated high school. “What’s with the camera,” she asks, “Are you a photographer?”
“Kind of,” he says. “It’s a hobby I hope becomes a profession someday.” A talker, and a bit nervous, Wes launches right into a seminar on photography, freely talking apertures, f-stops, and depths of field.
“Whoa!” she says. “You lost me!”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I forget myself. It’s all basically the same as how our eyes work.” From that moment on, his eyes never stopped working.
For Mary Ann, he keeps his apertures wide open. He wants her to know him completely, hoping she does likewise. They spend a lot of time together -- he talks, she listens. Because love can be blind, especially for a young photographer who sets the aperture of his heart to wide open, while only speculating where his love’s aperture is set. He makes his princess a “going steady” beach glass and shell necklace with matching bracelet. They begin sneaking into the freighter after dark and making out. Though often close, Wes always gets thrown out rounding the bases to third.
This coming July Fourth weekend is the Shore’s annual Bash on the Beach, complete with fireworks. The entire week prior, the couple spent no time together because she has friends down for the Fourth, and said she’d meet up with him at the Bash.
Joining her and the gang at the beach, quick math determines three couples, and one Wesley. His heart sinks, feeling the odd man out, especially seeing how animated Mary Ann is around her friends. The boy closest to her asks, in a loud, theatrical, voice, “So, this is the little friend who makes you jewelry?” They all laugh. Then another says, “Sounds pretty gay to me.” The laughter turns raucous.
Wes sees Mary Ann’s eyes looking down and away. She, too, is laughing. His world implodes with the hurtful realization she has had a boyfriend all along. He thinks, “What a fool! No wonder I never made it to third base. She was just using me!” As he storms off, he hears them still making fun of him. By week’s end, the whole town had heard. Even his friends were laughing at him. That’s when he decided to leave. The setting sun snaps him back to the present.
He had always wanted to capture how cool the sun looked through the rusted porthole just before it set. Making his way onto the freighter, he locates the porthole, and audibly proclaims, “Show time!”
Condé Nast Traveler’s, Wes Markley, quickly readies his camera, expertly, almost robotically, adjusting its settings. Holding it firmly, and looking through its lens, he whispers, “Steady... steady… steady... [click!]
“That’s it.” he says. And then shouts, “Yes, I got it!”
His skilled eye, his trusted, old, single reflex camera, and his heart, all knew at the sound of the shutter, he had just hit a grand slam homerun.