I tell Ian about Carmella, that she has gone home and probably won’t come back. Ian watches me as I speak, occasionally rubbing at a rash on the back of his hand. When I have finished, he turns back to the television and tells me not to worry, as there are plenty more fish in the sea. He continues with this theme for a while, trotting out a variety of clichés and platitudes about winning some and losing some and chasing the one that got away.
I acknowledge his efforts and drink my beer.
The game starts again and Ian becomes engrossed, providing constructive criticism to the ball-chasing men on the screen.
I think about the sea, and the fish in it. I think about sand and sand dunes and shingle and seaweed. I can taste the salty air and smell the decay from the detritus of the shore. The shrieking of seabirds and the rhythmic crash and draining away of waves on shingle fills my ears. The waves lap closer, splashing my toes; the next surge wets my feet and ankles. The cool water quickly reaches my knees, eating away at the sediment beneath my feet, and I sink steadily into the surf. The next wave flows over me right up to my neck.
I swim underwater, over the sandy shallows towards the deeper blue. My movement disturbs a stingray hidden on the bottom: sloughing the sand from its back it flaps its wings and glides out of sight. Floating to the surface, I lie face down, bobbing on the current as it drags me out to sea. Shoals of silvery fish dart and weave through the corals, forming into a dense ball that shudders and shimmers as I drift overhead. A cloud of jellyfish pulse through the water, pumping their way toward the surface. Long, dark torpedo shapes cruise out in the depths beyond the reef. I dive down to the seabed, my ears ringing as the pressure increases, settling between the domes of two massive, corrugated brain corals. The water is colder down here. The sun is a glistening blob on the surface, a long way above. Fish dart and glimmer as I sit on the seabed, peeking at me through the horns and spikes and grooves of the corals. They come close, but not close enough to touch; they circle just out of reach. Every time I move they flit away, forming into loose shoals that circle at a wider distance. I sit and wait until my breath is spent, and then kick for the surface, scattering the fish into nooks and corners.
I acknowledge his efforts and drink my beer.
The game starts again and Ian becomes engrossed, providing constructive criticism to the ball-chasing men on the screen.
I think about the sea, and the fish in it. I think about sand and sand dunes and shingle and seaweed. I can taste the salty air and smell the decay from the detritus of the shore. The shrieking of seabirds and the rhythmic crash and draining away of waves on shingle fills my ears. The waves lap closer, splashing my toes; the next surge wets my feet and ankles. The cool water quickly reaches my knees, eating away at the sediment beneath my feet, and I sink steadily into the surf. The next wave flows over me right up to my neck.
I swim underwater, over the sandy shallows towards the deeper blue. My movement disturbs a stingray hidden on the bottom: sloughing the sand from its back it flaps its wings and glides out of sight. Floating to the surface, I lie face down, bobbing on the current as it drags me out to sea. Shoals of silvery fish dart and weave through the corals, forming into a dense ball that shudders and shimmers as I drift overhead. A cloud of jellyfish pulse through the water, pumping their way toward the surface. Long, dark torpedo shapes cruise out in the depths beyond the reef. I dive down to the seabed, my ears ringing as the pressure increases, settling between the domes of two massive, corrugated brain corals. The water is colder down here. The sun is a glistening blob on the surface, a long way above. Fish dart and glimmer as I sit on the seabed, peeking at me through the horns and spikes and grooves of the corals. They come close, but not close enough to touch; they circle just out of reach. Every time I move they flit away, forming into loose shoals that circle at a wider distance. I sit and wait until my breath is spent, and then kick for the surface, scattering the fish into nooks and corners.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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