gasping

Sunday 18 May 2014

When I was about 12, my most treasured possession was my little blow-up dinghy.  A give-away from a mosquito spray company, it transported me across the coral reef of the Caribbean in front of my house to the deep azure waters beyond.  In it, I could avoid the treacherous sharp coral, and more importantly, the black, spiny sea-urchins.  If you were unlucky or clumsy enough to tread on one, the black needles would poison before you could call for help and you would die a hideously painful, though mercifully swift, death.

I would skim across the reef, stiff as a board, with my toes pointed into the front, paddling furiously to keep as much of the bottom flat as possible.  My snorkel and mask were permanently welded to my head.

It was a strange song I heard diving out from the reef; the tuneful froth from my mouth as I dove, the scratching hiss of sand and broken shell moving rhythmically far below me, the squeak and hum in my ears as I sank deep below the water.

I took my little plastic oar with me to poke about and move things - we were not so ecologically careful in those days.  Or perhaps it was the innocent cruelty of childhood that led me to shove my oar, quite literally, into a dark hole.

It stuck and I pulled hard, my flippered feet swelling me urgently back and forth.  My breath blew like thunder.  It came free with a brown thing attached - I thought it seaweed, and brushed at it with annoyance.  It was the rubbery, prehistoric spiral of an octopus that followed angrily out and we hung eye to eye in the turquoise water as I realised what it was.  I had already lost an oar to casual beach thieves so my priority was to keep this one.

Lucky for me, the beast cared more about his privacy and huffily billowed back into the gloom, while I shot, bubbles rattling from my open mouth, back to the surface.

This week, I have written off a car, celebrated a birthday and negotiated a sticky, tricky conversation.

I'm whizzing back up to the sun now.  I think I've still got an oar about me.  And I know the urchins will only sting, not kill.

16 comments:

  1. What a lovely journey you've taken us on, back to those innocent years of pre-teenhood. In the process, I've been reminded of those nasty prickly urchins that clung to the rocks where I swam in Crete and ended up embedded in my feet (ouch!). Oh, and those painful purpley jellyfish with stings to match in colour (ouch again!). Pools are so much more attractive in adulthood.

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    1. They are, aren't they? And those urchins. There are two ways to get rid of them, one is candle wax and the other too ghastly to contemplate...

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  2. Thank you for the mini-holiday to the Caribbean. I always marvel at how you don't just let us see, but HEAR. Enjoy the sun!

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    1. Thank you - very short-lived and great tropical downpour today, but all the sweeter for its fleeting nature.

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  3. xoxoxoxox. So vivid, the images.

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  4. How you have transported us with this lovely little story. I want to know if you really had a little blow-up dinghy? And where were you actually paddling? Just too too lovely. xx's

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    1. Yes I did, with a big Baygon logo on it! I was paddling on the Caribbean (West) coast of Barbados, where I lived literally on the beachfront just down from Sandy Lane. Spoilt or what?

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  5. Hello Elizabeth,

    How beautifully you capture those days of all our youths when we put caution to the wind and struck out on adventures alone. Although we recognised the dangers that lurked 'in the gloom' just waiting to strike us down, we persevered none the less, convinced of our own immortality.

    And, how different it is as we age. Somehow the birthdays, the tricky conversations and the car crashes can no longer be simply shrugged off and one yearns for the rescue dinghy to come sailing along and rescue us from difficult decisions or embarrassing situations.

    In these few words you have captured all of this. The humanity of your writing is profound and so we identify so readily with what you write. We are all, after all, human.

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    1. That's so true about the dinghy; I would like to look up and see its reassuring little green bottom bobbing away as I muddle about below.

      Thank you as always for your thoughtful comment; they make my day!

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  6. Goodness. So just your average week then? Change is in the air. We have experienced the most extraordinary bumps in the road in the last few weeks. No one thing of magnitude, but combined, they indicate a sea change, (to capture your tenor). Oh and today Martial Law was imposed, whatever that means. Hey Ho!

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    1. I am thinking of you as I listen to the evening news; nobody seems too worried by any of it just yet. I hope that you are both safe and have a splendid contingency should you need it.

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  7. Sorry to hear you've had a bad week. I feel for you writing off the car - I pranged mine too but it's fixable. Still so bloody annoying though.

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Please leave a comment if you can be remotely bothered - anything you have to say is valuable and I absolutely love hearing from you all. Elizabeth