Rain pelted down, finding the tiniest crack in my boots’ waterproofing. The dog dug a bedraggled, disembodied bird wing (that he has been obsessing over for the last few weeks) out of the undergrowth, defying my desperate whistles. Nearby, a bull glowered at me, resenting my intrusion into his space. A headache sprouted behind my left eye.
Over the rain-wrinkled dyke, there was a white flash, followed by a splash. The tern resurfaced and climbed into the air again. Wheeling on elegant, slight wings, and with a keen eye for the fish just below the surface, the bird busied itself further along the dyke.
A flurry of different wings. Broad, pure white, laconic. A great white egret beat a dignified, almost reluctant, retreat. It landed near a pool, peering at me with a haughty, disgruntled air. It stalked away behind the reeds, its long bill leaving behind just a glimmer of yellow to illuminate the marsh.
The clouds lifted, the number of raindrops diminished. There was a glimmer of gentle, watery sunlight. The dog returned to my side without the wing, looked hopefully at me and asked for a treat.
It was simple, really. The wet feet, my soggy jeans and the impudence of dog and bull were irrelevant. The parcels of joy, the things that happened by accident and not by design, were what really mattered.
I stood in the sunshine, relishing the peace and the joy. I was happy and grateful.
He was sitting at a dark corner table with a pile of foam-flecked empty glasses in front of him. At first, I thought his beard was dark in colour. When I turned to speak to him, I noticed it was just unkempt, the dirt and grime diguising the original colour.
“Sorry?”
He wiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve, then repeated, “Hope is like soap. You try and grasp it but the tighter you hold on, the more it slips away.”
He sat back and took a gulp from his latest pint of beer; there was a dark liquid in his glass that was excepionally brown and heavy. It put me in mind of sump oil.
“You could be right,” I replied. Instinctively, I felt that a hard luck story was imminent. In order to avoid it, I turned on my stool looking back at my sparkling gin and tonic.
“I used to have it,” he went on, oblivious to my lack of attention. “Hope, I mean. Then, everyone and everything went wrong. This back is full of stab wounds. This heart is in pieces.”
I knew without looking that he would be gesturing at his chest and between his shoulder blades. Once more, I chose not to look, there was too much weirdness about the guy. I agitated my glass, letting the ice tinkle and the slice of lemon spin around with abandon. I was quite pleased that playing with my glass prevented me from hearing him.
Taking another sip, I looked wistfully at the empty stool next to me. It was where Sam should be. I sighed. What a night to choose to go out alone. It wasn’t as if Sam had anything important on either, just wasting the night watching TV.
I sent a text, “Hey, missing you. Wanna come and drink with me?”
When I checked back, the old guy had gone. The pile of glasses were still there, though. In fact, there seemed to be even more empties there than when I had first looked. It was odd not seeing him there any more; we had bonded just slightly. I thought he might have said a few more words before he left. Even a few thousand more. Suddenly, I felt even more alone than before. Picking up my phone, I checked to see if Sam had messaged. Nothing.
A few more sips and I had an empty glass. I ordered another. Between drinking that and checking my phone for Sam’s reply, I began to get a bit down. I decided to call Sam.
I dialled and it went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. You don’t know what fun you are missing here. There was this old guy but he has gone now, but he was so odd. Anyway, the stool next to me is empty, they do that beer you like, so come down. Or at least call me. Or text me.”
A few more sips, the tinkle of ice became more annoying than either pleasant or joyful, the lemon bitter and cloying.
I dialled again.
“Sam? Are you there, Sam? Sam….”
Without knowing what I was doing, I found myself getting off the stool. My feet took me across the sticky floor and I found myself in that dark corner. Unbidden, the barman brought over a pint glass full of the dark beer. I was about to decline it but the bitter flavour drew me in and I sipped from the glass. This was what I drank now.
I remained in the dark corner, losing track of time. All that mattered were the glasses of dark, thick and bitter beer. There never seemed to be an end to them and no-one ever asked me to leave or even to pay.
One evening, a fresh faced customer perched on a nearby stool. I registered that there was a horrified glance in my direction. Then, I heard myself speak.
They are the words I would shout, the life I would lead, the jewel of my being. Yet, I whisper them, so they would be forever hidden. They must stay private, just between us.
Now you are the guardian of my deepest thoughts, my precious emotions. I will you to hold them in the cup of your heart, protecting them like a candle flame. The tiny naked flame that flickers and threatens to become extinguished.
“Careful,” I say. “Look after my whispered words.”
“These words might light up the world,” you say.
So, you take them and run, proffering my whispers to others.
I am scared to look. What will happen? Will my light be forever extinguished? It might be that the world is suddenly ablaze with what I gifted to you.
I try to gain courage, whispering once more. This time, when I whisper, only I can hear.
This beauty has been becalmed off the marshes for a while following a storm
I think life is about the journey.
Of course, I would say that. I’m a mode of transport, after all.
But the moment I was torn free of the mooring and got to sail myself to wherever I wanted to go was the greatest moment of my life. No impertinent tweaks of the rudder and no meddling with my sails. I could just go wherever I wanted to.
It was my every fantasy realised. There was the ecstatic feel of the water running underneath me. The clouds were slipping over the moon and shimmering silver was scattered over the dark water. It was liberating and thrilling all at the same time.
Maybe, permitting myself to dream of running free across the seas was a mistake. My fantasies of finding the dolphins and frolicking with them had begun to feel tangible. But my allies, the wind and the tides, began to conspire just as I could taste the open sea. I was pushed to where I did not wish to go. Call it instinct, but I could feel the water getting shallower; soon enough, the mud was beginning to drag at my keel.
I willed the water to bear me onwards and to carry me further away. But it would not. The tell-tale grinding of shingle tore through the howl of the wind. I strived to push myself on, trying to get over the sandbank. But, the water dwindled. A gust pushed me onto one side. The mud grabbed, stifled me and would not let go.
I was stuck.
So, now I reside on a sandbank. There are no dolphins, no trips across the open seas. Instead, I sit high and dry. I am still clear of my moorings, untethered and independent. Yet, it is not the grand liberation I had allowed myself to dream about.
Like I said, life is about the journey. There’s always a sandbank waiting for you at the end of your roaming. Just run as free as you can, for as long as you can before you run into yours.
Sam awoke to a face full of sand. The sun burned his back but his clothes remained cold and wet, clinging to his front.
How had he got herw? He remembered the waves and the roar of the wind. Once more, his stomach lurched as he relived the dramatic pitch of his boat, then the nothingness.
He staggered to his feet, looking around at the empty expanse of golden sand and the palm trees. Deserted. There was no-one else here, he just knew it. Despite the towering cliffs in his eyeline, which hid the other side of the island, instinct told Sam that he was on his own. Looking at the distant sea, he could see nothing alive before the huge and vacant stretch of the horizon.
He walked.
Following the shoreline along, he rounded the end of the island. His eyes scarcely left the beach as he trudged along. When he looked up, which was a weary trial for his neck, he saw an unexpected black mass in the sea.
Another island!
He walked towards the reticent sea, each step taking him closer to the only other place in his world. The island grew gradually. It still seemed remarkably distant. Finally, he got to the edge of the water. It was as close as he wanted to getto the sea after the storm he had experienced last night. He scanned the far shore. As far as he could see, the other island was almost identical to the one he was standing on. It appeared to be deserted too.
Peering intently above the foaming crests of the waves, his eyes narrowed as he grew ever more anxious. He just wanted to see anything else that was alive, even a bird flying above the waves. As he scanned for one last time, he saw something he scarcely wanted to believe he was seeing. It looked like a figure. Sam tried a tentative wave. To his amazement, the figure waved back. He took a step into the shallow waves and stood at the water’s edge, as near as he could get to his only other contact in the whole world,
Then, the tide came in.
Sam was forced to retreat. He backed away from the encroaching water, his arms outstretched towards his fellow castaway. As Sam went away, so his neighbour got closer, reclaiming land from the waves. Finally, Sam felt the scratch of the rocky cliffs against his bare heels. He crouched down, spent of all energy and hope. He saw now how it was going to be. They would take it in turns to get nearer to the other island, before being forced back again.
Sometimes closer, sometimes advancing but never together. The sea sent in one final wave around his feet. Angrily, Sam kicked the water away.
He watched the spray fall, his anger spent. He settled back against the rocks and waited until it was his turn to advance down the beach.
I see its yellow twinkle and admire its knowing wink. As I get closer, I can hear that it whispers about Spring. From a nearby branch, the blackbird sings. The urgent, chattering notes of its song are telling the world, ‘It is time. It is time!’
I walk on, each step lighter than the last.
Everywhere I look, the scattered, precious jewels of Hope glint back at me in the pale sunshine.
Estuary Tales 