Down by the Bay

About two months ago I went down to the ocean, just of the coast of California, with my best friend for work. We were going to finish up by the next day and then go site seeing and just enjoy ourselves. A little after our work on Sunday, we went to the beach and relaxed. It was a little windy, but we weren’t wet so we didn’t mind.

The only suspicious thing was that there was no one there. No one, except us and a man in his 60s wearing a yellow rain jacket and carrying a tackle box.

We tried to talk to him, find out about the history of the beach, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were a golden-hazel color, and he was incredibly pale.

He just kept muttering. “I need to get back to my family, it’s almost Christmas. The storm of 1980, the storm of 1980...”

Usually wanting to be with your family at Christmas would be normal, except for the fact that it was July, it was 2011, and he said it in a low, wispy voice.

Later that evening after dinner, something went wrong with the project so we went back up to the office. About twenty minutes later my friend said she was going to the restroom. So I continued on the project, and was almost finished when I had realized it had been thirty minutes and she still hadn’t come back. I went into the restroom, there she was looking sickly and pale.

“What happened to you?”

“H-he was here.” She replied softly.

I hugged her and tried to convince her that she probably had the flu and was just imagining things.

We were about to leave the restroom when the door slammed shut and locked itself. We looked at each other and pulled on the door as hard as we could, but it wouldn’t budge. We screamed and screamed, but no one heard us. All of a sudden I heard,

“I need to get back to my family, it’s almost Christmas. The storm of 1980, the storm of 1980...”

We turned around and there the fisherman was whispering it in our ears. We screamed harder and harder, until our boss opened the door. She too saw the fisherman and her face went blank and she started to sweat.

“Girls, get out of the bathroom now.”

We had no problem following that order.

As soon as we got out of the building, our boss told us, “Pack your things, we're leaving in an hour.”

I don’t know exactly what made me ask this, considering the terrors that I had just seen. I wanted to go home, but I said, ”Why, don’t we have to finish the project?” Our boss shook her head, and muttered,

“I thought it wouldn’t happen again, but it did. Girls, I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I must. In 1980 there was a huge thunder storm, and the boat Mr. Levi Jordanson worked on capsized. Most of the passengers and workers were quickly helicoptered to emergency rooms, and still live around this area to tell the story. Levi Jordanson did not survive and was found two weeks later dead of hypothermia, starvation and dehydration. Levi Jordanson had died on December 23, 1980, muttering: ‘I have to get back to my family, it’s almost Christmas. The storm of 1980, the storm of 1980...’”

Later after we had gotten home, our boss also told us that building had been built over his grave, in honor of his life. We moved our office to down town San Diego and never went back to that old house again. Although, I don’t think Mr. Jordanson wanted to hurt us. He just wanted to get home to his family in time for Christmas…but he never did, because of the storm of 1980.