Seven Sea Otters sailing on the mist

A few years ago, yet a moment solidified in the space of my mind, which will live forever, I was living in my tent on a beach in Homer, Alaska. I had finished up cleaning the kitchen at El Pescador Bar and Grill, and headed back to our little commune tent city we had going on the beach. The fire was raging and bottles of wine were being passed around. My friend Friday was on shore from yet another week long private fishing charter, and as usual he brought his drums, two pizzas and some mushrooms along with him, a bounty which he graciously shared with our little community. Friday was becoming quite the fixture among us "Spit Rats."
By the time I had arrived though, all the mushrooms had already been eaten, which didn't bother me any. We all shared everything, I was getting turned on by just jamming to the grooves we had going around the fire, and the new people who showed up every night to make it another beautiful occassion. I took a few swigs of wine, rolled myself a cigarette and sat down to play my guitar. As the night moved onward, most of those who hadn't eaten any mushrooms had retired to their tents, but I was still up, and vibin' with the core gang of fungi heads. I was on their level, when the fire started dying down, and as we prepared to leave our little spot on the beach for a little adventure we noticed the northern lights off to the north, right above the horizon of this late August midnight's twilight. We spent the next few hours aboard someone's boat in the harbor down the road. Everyone was coming down, but I had nothing to come down from.
We emerged from the cabin of the boat somewhere around 4 or 5 in the morning to a thick milky fog blanketing the air. I could not see more than twenty or thirty feet from where I stood at any point. As I walked back toward my tent I felt more as if I were floating, never had walking seemed so effortless. It did not feel like I was on earth, "This is amazing," I thought to myself, " I'm sober, yet I'm high as hell." As I approached my beach residence, I heard an eagle screeching shortly before hearing the splash of its talons on the bay's surface, but I could not see it with my eyes. It was as if I knew exactly what was going on through the fog, yet I could not see it with my eyes. It was as if the veil between dimensions had become transparent, and I was in a space between spaces, caught in a timeless world of experience.
I sat down near the smoldering embers of the fire, with my guitar in hand, and drank in the milky air. I played songs, I smoked cigarettes, I sat still in awe at what I was experiencing. It was during one of these intermissions that I looked toward the shore to see, as the fog began to retreat, seven sea otters floating belly-up in the murky waters of Kachemak Bay. I sang songs to them as the morning faded in to the day and the fog rolled back across the bay and over the peaks of the Kenai Mountains to rest above the Ice Fields until evening's return.