Settlement. The kernel of belonging. Flag up. Claim?
Never alone, really. A special place, a ripping left-hander when it fires. And the beach curves like an altar. I sacrifice myself to its new moon. Its old moon. At night the crabs scuttle out of their burrows in the deeper wet sand. Like burrs in wool, they are part of the sand. Part of the worldâs covering.
Accepting that itâs not satisfactory, no way of life for a proud and mighty golden ram. Why hang around? In the struggle to get home to loved ones, distractions are just ageing. And who is to write it up, record? How much research would be required to chronicle? How to find witnesses, collect their stories? Trapped under the spell. Wolf in sheepâs clothing. Welcome to the table. Lambs to the slaughter.
Any idea of what the information, the code of my body, is worth? So much wool. So many folds to carry the extra. Caulk the planks, secure the wiring. A weekâs fodder and fresh water and the gods will reward. If they no longer tell stories, they still dish out favours. Just no song and dance about it. It all having been killed off. I have learnt that the world is an abattoir. The ocean a cauldron of blood. Our blood. Our shared sacrifice. After rest I will set off. A pleasant if insignificant port of call. No rocks hurled at me, no storms whipped up in anger or frustration. I have left no-one short.
Except for the shooters. They drop by to harass every now and again. Look for surf chicks. But not many come this far out. Mainly young men in vans whom I wave to in passing. Itâs a secret place. Some have given it a name but I have forgotten. I was a teacher once.
Help me with this. Down to the sea, a foot up (or two), all secure. A push out past the breakers, which are gentle now. Not surf season. Remember me. No return. No looking back. I am not an explorer.
The smell of wet wool. A second sun rising and setting. The sea eagle due back any day. Its partner. To nest. Mating for life. Waiting it out. Fish in talons.
Not a beachcomber. No. Never. Not really. The collection and collation of flotsam and jetsam, the pocketing of shells, the skimming of pebbles, polished by the earth-roll, into the waves. No. Incidental.
BAY
Heâd lost his car key in the sand between the car and the great granite boulder that jutted into the sea at low tide; surrounded at high tide. He cursed himself for removing it from the key ring so his new girlfriend could use the house keys. He was going to get another set cut the next morning; his son had the others. It wasnât a big expanse of beach, and he could probably focus the keyâs âdrop zoneâ to a straight, thick line, zeroing in on the place heâd been sitting near a rocky ledge, but there was still enough sand to mirror the infinitude of the cosmos. He was in no mood for appreciating the irony of this place being called Little Bay.
Yet it was an exquisite place. It was where he most enjoyed being. If it were possible, heâd live on the beach. It was isolated, and there were rarely more than a handful of people on its brilliant white crescent at any given time. But this was a warm day, and school holidays, and everyone who knew about it, plus tourists whoâd found it online, seemed to have turned up. In the time heâd been down there â what, an hour? â how many people could have trampled the key, the solitary key, deeper into the vacuum?
He thought about the rest of his keys as he began slowly and methodically to retrace his steps, from the car back down to the beach. He thought about them being in Aniaâs oversized handbag, sloshing around in the bottom with other keys, lipsticks, a compact, used cotton-buds, stale cough lollies. He shuddered under the warm sun as sunblock melted on his nose. He could taste the chemicals in his mouth. Ania wasnât much tidier than his seventeen-year-old son, whoâd be waiting for the car, looking out of the window for
Never alone, really. A special place, a ripping left-hander when it fires. And the beach curves like an altar. I sacrifice myself to its new moon. Its old moon. At night the crabs scuttle out of their burrows in the deeper wet sand. Like burrs in wool, they are part of the sand. Part of the worldâs covering.
Accepting that itâs not satisfactory, no way of life for a proud and mighty golden ram. Why hang around? In the struggle to get home to loved ones, distractions are just ageing. And who is to write it up, record? How much research would be required to chronicle? How to find witnesses, collect their stories? Trapped under the spell. Wolf in sheepâs clothing. Welcome to the table. Lambs to the slaughter.
Any idea of what the information, the code of my body, is worth? So much wool. So many folds to carry the extra. Caulk the planks, secure the wiring. A weekâs fodder and fresh water and the gods will reward. If they no longer tell stories, they still dish out favours. Just no song and dance about it. It all having been killed off. I have learnt that the world is an abattoir. The ocean a cauldron of blood. Our blood. Our shared sacrifice. After rest I will set off. A pleasant if insignificant port of call. No rocks hurled at me, no storms whipped up in anger or frustration. I have left no-one short.
Except for the shooters. They drop by to harass every now and again. Look for surf chicks. But not many come this far out. Mainly young men in vans whom I wave to in passing. Itâs a secret place. Some have given it a name but I have forgotten. I was a teacher once.
Help me with this. Down to the sea, a foot up (or two), all secure. A push out past the breakers, which are gentle now. Not surf season. Remember me. No return. No looking back. I am not an explorer.
The smell of wet wool. A second sun rising and setting. The sea eagle due back any day. Its partner. To nest. Mating for life. Waiting it out. Fish in talons.
Not a beachcomber. No. Never. Not really. The collection and collation of flotsam and jetsam, the pocketing of shells, the skimming of pebbles, polished by the earth-roll, into the waves. No. Incidental.
BAY
Heâd lost his car key in the sand between the car and the great granite boulder that jutted into the sea at low tide; surrounded at high tide. He cursed himself for removing it from the key ring so his new girlfriend could use the house keys. He was going to get another set cut the next morning; his son had the others. It wasnât a big expanse of beach, and he could probably focus the keyâs âdrop zoneâ to a straight, thick line, zeroing in on the place heâd been sitting near a rocky ledge, but there was still enough sand to mirror the infinitude of the cosmos. He was in no mood for appreciating the irony of this place being called Little Bay.
Yet it was an exquisite place. It was where he most enjoyed being. If it were possible, heâd live on the beach. It was isolated, and there were rarely more than a handful of people on its brilliant white crescent at any given time. But this was a warm day, and school holidays, and everyone who knew about it, plus tourists whoâd found it online, seemed to have turned up. In the time heâd been down there â what, an hour? â how many people could have trampled the key, the solitary key, deeper into the vacuum?
He thought about the rest of his keys as he began slowly and methodically to retrace his steps, from the car back down to the beach. He thought about them being in Aniaâs oversized handbag, sloshing around in the bottom with other keys, lipsticks, a compact, used cotton-buds, stale cough lollies. He shuddered under the warm sun as sunblock melted on his nose. He could taste the chemicals in his mouth. Ania wasnât much tidier than his seventeen-year-old son, whoâd be waiting for the car, looking out of the window for
Similar Books
