By Darryl
She is alone. Her family now restricted. Her visitors, of days long since gone, no longer come for her, but for others.
Vacant of purpose, she is seen as a relic, an eyesore harboring forgotten memories, a throwback to an era long since gone. For her five decades of contributions to her community and those that love her, segregation, isolation, and deterioration are now all that is requited. But despite her diminished and ignored stature, she stands tall every day, gazing longingly at her birthplace with its residents and guests bustling about, as she recalls early memories from happier times.
Shortly after her arrival, and amongst much fanfare, she was fully embraced by her new hometown. As the center of much attention, she hosted guests continuously, day and night, with little respite.
She quickly achieved an iconic state of being and cemented her place amongst the prominent and sight worthy features of the greater community. People knew her well, and frequently referenced her with landmark prestige.
As time continued, grandparents began telling their grandchildren of their visits to her, taken by their grandparents, when they were “their age”. She had become a combination of lore, legend, and royalty in the eyes of many; it seemed her place on the beach would always be. The Lighthouse on the Point was no longer the only game in town, and even Old Town, early on, thought she was just a new passing fad. Until she wasn’t.
But those memories now bring her both smiles and suffering, just as age has brought to her, her demise. The pain of failed and inadequate care has taken its toll, and she senses her end is nigh.
How and when she will be released from her tortuous final days is unknown, but what is known, is that those days are indeed upon her. If she is not dealt with soon, nature will do the job; her existence, one way or the other, is destined to be confined to the annals of history, and held as sacred memories for those who lived in her time.
She will either be removed, purposefully piece by piece, or randomly crushed and crumbled by the relentless continuous action of the ocean. Regardless, it will be a slow death, for it has already been a slow death. And there is no turning back the clock; the ticking of her destruction is loud, blatant, and foreboding.
But she just keeps coming back to one hope; just do it, just get it over with, and replace her captive horror with the long held good memories of her adopted families, memories of her days of virility and swagger, when she was sought after and adored. When she was The Pier. The OB Pier.
But when she no longer graces the sands and waters of Ocean Beach, she will forever be “Our pier”.
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