I'm ready to write this, now. It was a Friday in early August, five months ago. The day before Ned's 60th birthday.
He'd been on his own at the beach for a few days while Enola was away with a friend and she'd asked me to check in on him. I dropped by the foodbank with some veggies from the garden and one of the awesome women there gave me a chocolate bar and a card for Ned, along with some ice packs for his cooler and a bottle of water.
I drove down to the beach, parked my car and someone called my name. The woman was Ned's cousin and she asked if I was heading down to see him. She had a birthday present to give him, but when she walked down to the campsite he didn't seem to be there. Instead, from a distance, she saw an unfamiliar man lying in the middle of the clearing, looking like he was having a nap. She didn't feel comfortable going into the trees on her own and waking up a stranger (fair enough), but she thought maybe I would know the new guy. I said sure, I'd see if he knew where Ned was.
When I got to the path through the shrubs, I could see the man she was talking about. It was going to be one of a string of very hot days, but the sun was still low. He was lying in the middle of the campsite, just in the shade. I could see dark hair and he didn't look familiar. He was lying stretched out with his ankles crossed and his hands resting on his stomach. I could hear snoring. He looked completely relaxed.
I walked a bit closer and said, "Excuse me..." and again. But no response. I walked all the way into the clearing, and a filter shifted in my brain. I realised what I was seeing. Oh, shit. Ned.
I don't know why whoever left him there arranged his posture like that, but it was either mockery or an attempt at camouflage.
The dark 'hair' wasn't. It was blood. He was completely battered. His eyes swollen shut. A thick coating of caked and dried blood completely covered his face, up into his hair, down onto his chest. It was clotted in his ears, and in his nose with one steady trickle running down from his nostril to his right cheek. He was snoring because he was gasping for breath. I think he was unconscious. Based on the dried blood, he'd been like that for hours.
I started talking to him, using his name, telling him he wasn't alone and I was calling 911. I grabbed a chair so I wouldn't have to kneel on the ground among the teeming red ants. Maybe they're why there was no blood on the ground.
The 911 operator answered. I told her that I was on the beach with a man who looked like he'd been beaten really badly. She started the calls to the First Responders, then asked me for more information. "How old do you think he is?" "He's 59." "Oh, you know him?" "His name is Ned, and tomorrow is his birthday."
There were a lot of flies and the sun was coming around, so I reached for his cap that was lying nearby. I shook out the sand and used it to fan him and to shoo away the bugs while we waited for help to come. I kept hold of his hand, and talking, and every now and then, he would make a groaning, gurgling sound, his body would tense and flex. The first couple of times, I thought, Well at least he won't die alone. But maybe those were moments of consciousness. I hope he could hear my voice through the blood in his ears.
I also tried to explain to the operator where we were, down from the parking lot, along the beach and in the trees. I said I could go meet the responders but I didn't want to leave Ned alone.
After a while, I heard sirens in the distance. I told Ned, I can hear sirens. Hang on. Help is coming.
Soon the first two people arrived. One was a mental health outreach nurse I'd met recently. She and her Police Auxiliary partner had been waiting at the food bank to give Ned a ride back after he got his food that morning. They heard the call on the radio and realised who it was for. They knew the way to the campsite, so the rest of the responders weren't far behind.
Suddenly there were people everywhere--police, paramedics, fire fighters, search and rescue folks. I was in the way.
I gave them my information, answered the questions I could, and asked how I could get updates on his condition. After they'd stabilised and secured him as best they could, and after they'd started carrying him on a board down the beach toward the parking lot, I asked the Auxiliary officer if I could zip up the flap on Ned's two-man tent. I don't know. It seemed to make sense at the time. I guess I just needed to do something.
I carried the chocolate bar and the birthday card back to the parking lot, drove to the food bank, and explained what had happened. They asked me, "Do you think maybe he just had a stroke and fell?" I said, "Only if he bounced about 25 times." I wish I hadn't said that. It seems flippant, in retrospect.
Out at my car again, I looked up as the medivac helicopter went overhead. I thought, Ned.
I drove to the church and phoned Enola. Then I phoned my husband and vented everything. The first of several times.
At the big city hospital, they did what they could. They gave him a chance to recover, but eventually they concluded that his brain wasn't responding to anything. Not even pain. So they took him off the machines and Ned was gone.
For what it's worth, investigators did take it seriously, this beating of a homeless man. They did a fingertip search of the beach, interviewed everybody whose name they came across. Some of us more than once. They took people's phones and reviewed security cameras. No results yet.
Enola is doing alright. Doing her best.
Nobody wanted to live on the beach after that. They moved to another part of town. But the beach is where we held Ned's memorial service. About 30 people came, from around town, from the food bank, from the street, from the church. The eulogies captured Ned's personality, and we laughed and cried. The closing hymn was "Happy Birthday, dear Ned!"
And me? I'm not the same person I was before. It's strange looking back on those 14 minutes, 7 seconds and considering how I behaved. I did the right things, I think. But in those minutes, I can't remember any actual emotions. (That came later.) And I never prayed. (So did that.) I never wondered if the perpetrator was still lurking in the bushes. I never worried about my safety.
The next day--Saturday--is a fog. The Sunday morning in church with my faith family was tremendously healing.
It's made me a little bit harder, and definitely more determined to always walk toward people on the fringes.
If Ned had had a door to lock. If he had been in a neighbourhood. If he hadn't been 'that homeless guy on the beach' I'm convinced this would not have happened. He wouldn't have spent those hours lying alone and helpless. If I hadn't come along when I did, he could have lain there for hours more before someone realised what they were seeing.
None of this is ok, but hell if I'm going to walk away.
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