LOST PICTURES (2011)
Bright blue, bright blue; so blue that it is white; a glare and a smear that makes your eyes blur; squint up, screw up tight to shut out the white, blue shine.
The sand is hot and stony under my feet. Soft baked sand; stony gravel in the shallows. Sharp pods poking up, ready to make me hop on one foot. Scrabbling to unhook the sharp thorns.
I am reading a book with the letters melting into each other; holding it up to blot out the sun. Trying to create shade on the print. Knowing my arms will soon ache and I will shift round on the slippy, plastic lounger and start reading ,this time back in the bright, bright glare.
A quick hiss of coldness on the misted can; a breath of sweet bubbles, a tang of lemon. A funny tickle in my nostrils.
The sea dances; dances in front of my eyes. The waves burst with heaves of quick spray, the banners flutter, the wind bakes the sand and hisses on the paper.
Bright sails, stripy bright sails; bouncing in a jerky fabric across the line of the ocean. Spray whipping into the air; lines of white wakes and converging windsurfers.
Someone leaps off a wave; turns a somersault in the air, lands and speeds off in another direction.
Bronze muscles, sun bleached hair. Men and women; salt covered, dancing in the air. Tense shapes melding with the steep waves; leaping, screeching away to the opposite shore.
I am holding the camera; trying to see you; a wee dot, far away. I tug my wife’s arm as you swirl around in some sort of gybe I forget the name of, close inshore, by our beach. Spray, sails whipping across in a shiny blur; the board dipping and rising, catching the wind, accelerating for the joy of the feel of the cool water. The foam boom, your feet in the board’s straps, clipped on to the board, to lean out.
I watch you get rescued by a grumpy Turkish fisherman when the board you choose is so light weight, so high performance that, in the lull in the wind it just sinks. I watch you grinning, when he dumps you on the shore and tells you to get a proper board.
Day after day watching you; watching you and remembering. Books, pages creasing, smearing them with splashes of sun cream, coffee.
Sweet Turkish coffee; walking in the narrow streets, the dusty streets, the fruit and vegetable stalls, the spinach pasties.
I am surprised at your muscles, your tan, your agility and confidence. The way you mingle with the staff and choose board after board.
I watch you grump when the wind drops and the boards slow. The awkwardness of your voice when the wind shrieks and it is all too much to try to venture out.
Remembering you; my last holiday with you.
Bright skies, blue sky, white, heat blurred print. A last argument on the last day with my wife. We walk into town counting out the last of our money for a shared meal while your mother lies on the bed, silent; fuming; refusing to give us any of our last remaining holiday money.
We walk together; not speaking but glowing when we sit under the grape vines, cooled by the evening air and our long shirts. We share mezze.
We are getting ready to return home and move on into separate worlds.
(Photo : Summer evening 2020, Hermitage park - sorry its not Turkey!)
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