Phil Taylor sat on a cliff at the water's edge, looking down at the rock below. He could hear the voices of his band members on the breeze.

"Phil! Killer show, man," said Jeff.

"Wicked show," said Mike.

Phil turned. He could remember the day he'd taken Mike Baldwin aboard their little ship. One glance at Mike's six-string bass and Jeff Wojtysiak bristled, cradling his five-string. There'd been a friendly competition between the two ever since, each throttling their bass in constant maneuvers for one-upmanship. It was the backbone of the Volta do Mar sound. Sometimes he felt trapped between the Scylla and Charbydis, playing guitar with them.

"Dude, we fucking rocked." Tony Ceraulo. Fastest drummer in northeast Illinois, first mate.

They did rock. The band started with the three songs on their EP, barely seventeen minutes long. "...is the Turn of the Sea" was always a great introduction, explaining their name and all that. Phil would cast a strident line with his guitar, whipping back and forth until the bass descended like an angered bull. They'd turn the notch up and blare for twenty seconds or so, quiet it down with some soft arpeggios and spacious bass, then shift into a series of tight, interlocking motifs. Of course, another lull would be needed before the crashing, double-speed conclusion. Audiences would look confused, wondering where the microphone was, but by the end of their six-minute pieces they'd sit back surprised, hardly able to comprehend all that had just been heard.

"Did you see that long-haired metalhead?" Jeff asked. He was totally wigging out, his head all wagging back and forth. I think he scared the scenester next to him."

Mike replied, "The one with the Tortoise shirt? They were there together! I saw them talking in-between sets. We had his head nodding, too."

"Munich Air Disaster" was harder to play. Phil dug up some chords that chimed on the upbeat, a jaunty little melody that would appeal to all the jazzheads. Then they slowed down, the bass groove brooding in the depths-- a pause, then the expected freakout, distortion spreading the violent tempest around. Phil found himself shredding just to keep pace, and he didn't like the ending, when everything sped up until the jam reached its logical conclusion. The most fun piece to play was "Mass Transit Highway(s)." Phil led with an airy, Steve Vai-style tease, but then Tony would fire off some fills on the cymbals that sounded faster than playing cards in bike spokes. Jeff and Mike gave nods to Dave Pajo later on, whether they'd admit to having heard Aerial M or not.

Phil shook his head. "It was alright."

"I know Tony lost a few sticks, he was playing so hard," Mike frowned. "Did you get one stuck up your ass, man?"

Phil shook his head. "When the show was over, I wandered up here to watch the sun go down. After a while I could make out a figure approaching along the coast. This tall old guy was making his way slowly across the boulders, taking his time. Eventually, he was standing right next to me, a grizzled old bastard, wrinkled and smelling of sea salt. Probably an old sailor."

The codger had cleared his throat. "Volta do Mar, eh? Tightest act touring the West Coast, they'll probably say. I bet you fancy yourself the latest in a line of indie bands with nautical imagery. A regular Victory at Sea, courtesan to Rachel's, yep? Stuff it. The ocean moves in a million mysterious ways, boy, and you wouldn't last a second out there. You got no 'post,' just this." He handed over a rock. "And maybe you're not as taut as those krautrock bands, but ya need to learn how to roll. You're all sharp edges, boyo. Why, I remember the June of '44..."

"Dude, what did you say back?!" Tony blurted.

Phil shrugged. "Not much. He just turned towards the sea, and walked away."

Mike shifted to the other foot, restless. "And then he sailed away on the Jolly Roger, right? Damn, Phil, you can never tell a good story."

Jeff laughed. "No, it was a crane! God sent a crane right down, lifted him back up to the heavens..."

The three walked away, chuckling. Phil turned and watched the surf wash up on the shore, mixing the sea, the cake, the seaweed, the tracks leading from the sand to the water. The rock sunk with barely a splish. He'd show that old man.

-Christopher Dare, September 20th, 2001