When I lived in Harvard Square in the eighties, I woke up one morning to discover that my bike had been stolen. Bummer. It was October 30th, the day before Halloween and it was freakishly hot and sunny. I decided to pamper myself with a day off. I called in sick, grabbed a sandwich, a paperback, and a sketchbook, and set off to spend the day on Plum Island. 

Back then, most of the houses on the island were small summer cottages. The other half of the island was, and still is, a beautiful, pristine wildlife refuge with a single road running to the end of the island—every mile or so, a small parking lot. Even at full capacity, the refuge was never crowded, and that day, I was the only person at Parking Lot 5. I walked down the boardwalk, through the dunes, to the ocean. Bright sunshine, glorious light— a perfect day. And, to my delight, the beach was covered with hundreds and hundreds of sand dollars. A new moon high tide had scattered them everywhere.

I had an amazing time— walking along, collecting sand dollars, stopping now and then to read a story, make a drawing, or have a snack. The day was magical. I stopped to make a mermaid sculpture, above the high tide line, using sand dollars as scales and cucumber slices from my sandwich for breasts. I then took a power nap and when I woke up the sun was setting— it was time to leave. I traced my footprints back along the beach to the boardwalk and then to my car. 

But when I reached the parking lot, I discovered that I had lost my keys! I ran back to the beach searching frantically, until finally, I had to give up. The light was dimming. Soon it would be too dark to locate the boardwalk. By the time I arrived back at my car, it was pitch black. I literally could not see a few inches in front of me. 

There was a flashlight in my car, but I couldn’t get in—I was alone, five miles down the refuge road, long before cell phones were even a thing. I was terrified, but I started walking slowly towards the refuge entrance. I could hear my own footsteps on the gravel road . . . but then . . . what was that? Soon all I could hear was loud rustling, various hooting and other raw animal sounds in the hedgerow. I imagined the robust population of nocturnal critters—fisher cats and foxes and skunks with their perfect night vision, were no doubt running alongside the road in the dark. I was not alone at all. 

I had inched along a short distance, one baby step at a time, when, coming from behind, I heard the sound of hooves, getting closer and closer. A few seconds later, a deer was walking beside me—so close I could feel the heat from its body. At first, I was absolutely frozen with fear, my legs wobbly. But then—a feeling of peace washed over me as if I had entered a different realm. The deer walked calmly beside me, snorting gently, for what seemed like a very long time, until we reached the point where the road was paved with asphalt, and then it bounded off, disappearing into the brush. At that point, I could see lights in the distance from the inhabited end of the island.  

I haven’t really spent much time thinking about spirit animals, but I now believe that deer was sent to escort me to a point where I could manage on my own . . .

I walked and walked toward the distant light, finally reaching the refuge entrance. The gates were locked. I squeezed through two posts, walked to the Beachcomber, a local bar, ordered a draft, and used the pay phone to call a friend, who reluctantly drove up from Boston, a full hour away, to give me a ride home. By then it was past midnight. 

Happy Halloween.

In the morning, my girlfriend, Laurie, and I rented a car to drive back to Plum Island to rescue my car. Weatherwise, it was a completely opposite day—frigid, with a brisk wind. It was hard to believe the day before had been so beautiful. We drove to parking lot five. “Well, we’re here,” I said. “We might as well go down to the beach. I want to show you the sand dollars.” So we bundled up, leaned into the wind, and, squinting, made our way to the beach. 

Not a single sand dollar was in sight. They had all been reclaimed in the high tide that morning. Our faces were getting numb. “Well, this is stupid. I’m freezing. Let’s get out of here.”

But as we turned to leave, we noticed way down the beach, two tiny silhouettes—a couple of fishermen.

“Those guys must be crazy.” Suddenly one of them started running in our direction. He was waving his hands and yelling something. 

Laurie was in her third year of medical school. “Maybe there’s an emergency. Maybe a heart attack. I can help,” she said, through chattering teeth. So we started running too. 

The guy coming toward us was stout, made rounder by two hoodies, topped off by one of those embarrassing Christmas sweaters with pine trees and snowflakes. He was still yelling something, and we still couldn’t hear him.

When we were finally close enough, I hollered, “Do you need help?”

“No!” he yelled back . . . He held up his hand, “Did you lose your keys?” 

There they were, swinging from his thumb.

We reached each other, out of breath, laughing, The moisture on his moustache was frozen solid.

“Thanks, man. Where were they?”

My buddy spied them next to the remains of a mermaid in the dunes.” 

“Cucumber boobs?” I asked. He nodded and we all laughed. “I made her yesterday. It was 80 degrees. There were sand dollars everywhere.”

“Whatever made you think the keys were ours?” Laurie asked.

“We saw you looking around. Who else would be crazy enough to be here on a day like this?”

“That’s what we thought about you. Pretty insane to be fishing in this weather.” I laughed.

“Oh no,” he said, “This is nothing. You just have to know what to wear.”

“Trick or Treat!” He said, tossing me the keys. When he turned around to walk back to his pal, I gasped. 

There, on the back of his sweater, was a big red deer.