PROSE
At The Water's Edge
Up ahead, clear blue sky, the sea sparkling in the sun. The scene would've been beautiful if I'd had the time to appreciate it. But I had to concentrate. I had to keep the car on the road. I'd almost lost it on the last bend. I couldn't see them in the rear-view mirror but I knew they'd appear soon. They were trained for this sort of thing.
The water's edge was behind the palm trees about three hundred metres away to the right of the road. I could get there from the observation point, which was coming up on the next left bend. There was a thud as the car left the tarmac and rumbled across the rough ground, it started to spin and I pulled the heavy steering wheel clockwise to straighten it up: eventually we came to a standstill. I got out and slammed the door. Even then, when I was in fear of my life, I still got a flashback of my father telling me not to slam the door. I could sense the disapproval and the undertow on my self-belief. But I had to concentrate. This was more important now.
I felt bad about leaving the car there but I had no choice, time was running out. I reached the edge of the observation point and looked down over the small sandstone wall. It was about thirty metres down, steep but not impossible to climb down. I stepped over the wall and started to slowly traverse across the dry orange clay, grabbing at clumps of sand-grass for stability. I lost my footing at one point and started to slide. I tried to grab whatever I could but everything came away from the ground in my hands. Finally I hit a ledge and regained control. I got back on my feet. I had to keep going. I had to focus. I continued to make my way down. Soon I was at the bottom and running across the sand to the trees.
It seemed like a lifetime that I'd been running. They were always there, in the back of my mind, always in the shadows, following me. The security services, they were only looking out for our security, our safety. Who they were or where they came from, I didn't know. But they didn't let you leave, they didn't let you escape. I'd tried to give them what they wanted but they always wanted more. I worked hard, had a successful career, a house, a wife, a couple of children, but it never seemed enough. In fact, the more I had, the more they wanted. There was always more. There was never any satisfaction: once one goal was attained, then there was always another; when one promotion was achieved, I had to start planning for the next. My life filled with destinations and goals, accumulated possessions and achievements, and the pressures to maintain them. The treadmill didn't ever stop. Life was rushing past with no chance to appreciate what was going on. I had to keep moving. Running all the time, running in fear, one year blurring into the next.
As I reached the trees, I could see and hear the waves crashing on the other side. I ran through, the coolness of the shade hitting me, and then the heat hit me again as I emerged onto the beach. I continued running to the sea, dug my hands into the water, scooping it up over my face, washing the sweat off, cooling me. My right arm stung as the salt water washed the grazes from my fall. I turned back to the trees, found some shade and sat down. It would be a while before they'd get to me.
I looked out onto the ocean. If you were out there, it' would be down to you all of the time. You had to cope with all of the moods of the Earth, and not just when she's being pleasant. There'd be no turning away. You couldn't hide. You couldn't just hand it over to someone else, blame someone else or pass the buck. If you were sailing, you would be constantly adjusting and readjusting your sails to make most of the weather: a perpetual relationship with the elements. Of course, you didn't have to sail, you could motor to your destination. That can be faster than sailing but it's not always the case. It depends on the conditions. Generally it's easier, it's lazier. You can just set just your course and then all you have to do is look out for obstacles, almost switch off, disengage. It sounds ideal except for the continuous hum of the motor, which jars your nerves after a while and you start to wish you are somewhere else. When you motor, you always feel empty somehow.
I felt as if I'd been motoring most of my life: going from destination to destination as quickly as possible, never enjoying the journey, always with the background noise of pressure driving me on. I was continually thumping against the waves, struggling against the tide, against the wind, struggling against life. Forever trying to achieve a series of goals whose novelty evaporated almost as soon as I'd reached them. Always seeking to fill the emptiness inside. I wanted to go out there and sail. When you were sailing, that empty feeling wasn't there. It felt like you were living. You were engaged with life. It didn't feel like hard work even though you were working hard. You didn't always want to be somewhere else. It was enough just to be sailing, living, doing what you were doing.
I could hear the security guards approaching. I turned, and saw three of them through the trees. It wasn't the first time I'd been caught there. And I had always capitulated. I always went back with them to continue my "normal", quiet, and well-behaved life: back to the relative security of the land.
And regretted it. I chastised myself for not having the guts, the confidence, the faith in myself or life to go out there. But that wasn't fair: it was better to be safe than sorry. It was foolhardy to think I could ever go out there and survive, or even be a success. Even when I "paddled" with what I really wanted to do with my life, in the relative safety of the water's edge, success was limited. That in itself should have been confirmation of what I feared deep down: I didn't have the ability to go out there and was foolish to even consider it. I should've just accepted life as it was and made the most of what I had.
But I couldn't. I couldn't let go. Or perhaps it wouldn't let go of me. I considered what I did at the water's edge to be my proper work and would return whenever I could. Those that knew of my time there dismissed it as some frivolous hobby: an escape from the "day to day grind of earning money and staying alive". But this wasn't just something fun and different to do away from work. It was true, it was how I would spend much of my holidays but rarely could it be called fun. Often it was a struggle. It was frustrating. Progress would be slow, if progress existed at all. And yet it felt right. It felt as if it was what I should be doing. There seemed to be a fundamental connection. It assuaged my emptiness. I felt empowered, excited by life, recharged. Of course I questioned the exuberance. Was I was just convincing myself of how good it felt? Was it all just nonsense? Was I just a dreamer? Was I just running away from the reality of life and my responsibilities? But every so often there would be the smallest of successes, usually only recognisable to me: vindication for a belief in something intangible, proof or perhaps self-delusion that I was onto something, that it wasn't just imaginary, blind optimism or stupidity. And slowly, very slowly, I built my craft.
I ignored the guards as they approached and continued to stare out to sea, thinking, preparing myself. This would be the final confrontation. I didn't want to reach the end of my days with my senses dulled, wondering what if...what if I'd gone out there, what if I'd faced them? I remembered how bad I'd felt the last two times I had "bottled" it. What was the point of being secure if I felt as unhappy as I did? This time they would either drag me back to land and make an example of me, or leave me for dead, just to get washed away. I imagined their ironic smiles, "Well, he wanted to go out there anyway".
They stood in front of me, blocking my view. I looked up. I didn't recognise any of them. The one on the left shook his head in disbelief and disappointment. How could I confront them like this? Where was the respect? Where was the fear? Meanwhile the other two studied me as if to try and establish if I was crazy or not. The one on the right said: "Yeah, sure life is empty but look at the toys, the fun you're having. Isn't that what it's all about - having a good time? Your work pays for that".
The guard in the middle finally spoke: "Giving it all up for what? What's the point of going out there when you don't have to and you haven't got anywhere to go to anyway? What's the point of risking everything? Life is one big blur but that's what life is like. Sure, much of our time is meaningless but you have to pay for the good times. And look at your life now, how successful you've been? You should be proud. The comforts and possessions you have. Life should be a breeze for you".
The first nodded, "You're successful. Why give it up? Why should life be any different for you than the rest of us? Do you think you're special, better than we are? Why sacrifice your future? You have a secure job".
Their anger and dismay were understandable. My dissension threatened the status quo. They were in fear just as much as anyone, they had to be, otherwise they wouldn't be so good at their jobs. I certainly didn't think I was special, but I did feel special at the water's edge. For me there seemed to be a magic there. I tried to explain but they didn't seem to recognise or understand what I spoke of. Or if they did, they didn't want to admit it to themselves or show it in front of their comrades. They just looked at me in a pitying way, as if I was mad.
Their reaction wasn't a surprise. I rarely spoke of the water's edge to anyone, even close friends. Normally all conversations were kept to a superficial, day-to-day level. If I ever dared to mention the water's edge, the relationship usually became distant: whomever I was talking to didn't have a clue what I was talking about. There would be rare occasions when there was a flash of recognition. That was like discovering a stranger was actually a long lost friend. It was those times, in my own mind at least, that I felt I suddenly became more interesting. I stopped being the nobody I thought everybody thought I was. But those times were rare.
The guards tried a different tactic and started mocking me, said I was going into "retirement". I was irritated by this, that they should try such a cheap shot. They obviously saw me as easy prey: I was alone and had gone out on a limb. They thought they could get away with trying to demean something that was clearly important to me and which I would risk so much for. I said I saw it more as investing in my life. Their tone changed, perhaps surprised by the serious reply to a light-hearted challenge and they backed off a little. Perhaps there was a touch of envy but not so much that they were ever going to agree or take the risk themselves.
I'd heard all of their arguments before, puzzled over them, worried about them, had given into them. Always the negative consequences of going out there: not being able to survive; suffering; losing the shelter and comfort I'd known; losing what I already had; becoming poor; becoming destitute. All of these things I ran from, each one a pixel, an atom, a reason for the existence of these bogus men, always chasing me, always in the shadows of my mind. The reasons why I stayed in situations where I was secure but unhappy: why I didn't go out there; why I didn't ever get any further than the water's edge; why I always returned back to the "normal" life; why I felt empty.
The person I wanted to be was out in the ocean, but my fears stopped me going out there, stopped me being that person; my fears defined me just as the ocean defines the coast. Fears always based on the worst that could happen, never on how good life could be. Natural fears, obvious fears, sensible fears, but were those fears also preventing me from really living too? Were those fears, those fears that were protecting me ultimately from death, actually preventing me from living?
When I was younger I was scared of the water. But it wasn't really the water I feared but its potential negative consequences. I feared drowning. How had I overcome that fear? How had I learnt to swim? People generally overcame their fears by acclimatising to them and that was true of my learning to swim. I had slowly gone out into the water, gradually learned that I didn't have to be afraid, eventually discovered that this thing that I once feared actually supported me. Could life be like that?
To let the water support you, you had to have faith. You had to believe you could float otherwise your fear, your tension made you sink. And you had to let go of whatever security you had, otherwise your clinging to it prevented you from floating too. As you leant back into the water, as you took your feet off the ground, there was a point of no return when you just had to trust that the water would support you. Was I at that point now?
I was surprised that they didn't try and stop me as I got up and walked to the boat. Perhaps they realised there was nothing else they could say or do. They'd done their best. They certainly didn't show any doubt or appear to be persuaded by my arguments. They wished me luck: I suspect thinking, perhaps hoping, that I'd never make it. The lack of confrontation unsettled me: was it my pride that was hurt? The realisation that they really didn't want me any more. Or was it that there was no one to fight against now? The realisation that this was it, it was all down to me now, I was on my own.
It was now or never. I'd never ever be this close again. This thing that I'd always dreamed of. The only thing that I ever really wanted to do. I knew it was a risk, the odds were stacked against me. I knew I could be throwing everything I had ever achieved away, but that was better than throwing my life away. I remembered how bad I felt when I had "bottled it" before. I didn't want to feel like that any more, I wasn't going to spend the rest of my days feeling like that.
When I reached the water I noticed my reflection. It was as if it was the first time I'd ever really looked at myself. Of course I'd looked in the mirror before, but was it ever through my eyes? Always thinking about how other people would see me. Whether I was acceptable or not, whether I was doing well in their eyes; doing what they thought I should do, rather than what I wanted. In the past I had never looked how I had hoped, always scared, and bewildered. But now there seemed to be a sense of calm. All of a sudden I seemed less "blurred and pale", the picture was more focused, sharper. It didn't matter what other people thought of me anymore. This was it. I was truly being me.
Just as I had started writing these words, in the same way that the pen had met the paper, I pushed the boat out into the water, letting the breeze of ideas, thoughts, chance meetings, good luck, life, fill my sails. In the same way that I didn't know exactly what to write but had sensed that there was something to be written, I felt there was something out there for me.
The boat and I were on the water. I looked back at the shore, the guards were still there, watching me, expectantly, almost salivating, like dogs waiting for their food, waiting with certainty for me to fail. I had to only look ahead, perhaps that was the true benefit of fear: it made you concentrate.
I had no idea how this would all end. I was only sure about one thing. After so many years in the shadows, having had that empty feeling, having felt like I was biding my time, of feeling like I was dying, I felt like I was living again.
