the lone surfer… unfinshed… part six

nooshk — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 15:25:07 +0000

The next morning it is the thought, the promise, of the lone surfer that pulls me from my bed. The weather has turned overnight and everything is grey, a fine drizzle is constant and there is a distinct chill in the air. I pull on a hooded sweater and jeans and head out. The streets are deserted so early on in the morning, all the holiday makers opting for a lie in and probably hoping the weather will brighten up by the time they make it out of their hotels. I walk to the beach quickly and am there early, before the surfer. I don’t like to be before them, it makes it seem like I am waiting for their arrival, which I am, but they don’t need to know that. I sit on the sand, find an area which is dry-ish and pull my hood up over my head, looking out to sea, my eyes go blurry, lose focus, and it’s hard to see where the sea ends and the sky begins. I can hear the gulls squawking and calling to each other over head. The beach is empty save for me and a jogger out in the distance, wearing red. I sit and I wait. I don’t have to wait for long, on time the lone surfer
arrives, I hear the low grumble of their truck first, the bang of the door, I don’t even turn around so sure it is them. A couple of minutes and then they enter my vision from the right, running across the sands. They don’t even hesitate, they just run, jump, straight in, swimming out a fair way, strong confident strokes, taking them someplace else. The waves seem to acknowledge their
presence, swelling, growing, moving forwards, faster, and higher. The surfer, as they do everyday meets them head on, moves with them so gracefully, daring them, spurring them on. I could watch forever.

When finished, they emerge from the sea; they seem slightly breathless, pause for a moment and rest their board in the sand, standing it upright. They look out to where they have came, slightly bent, hands on their knees. The mist has lifted and the sun is slowly trying to make an appearance. It’s hazy but defiantly there, the clouds at its
edge are starting to melt away. The surfer stands up straight and stretches. I wonder fleetingly what they are thinking about, I couldn’t for one second imagine, is it a person that hovers at the edge of their mind, a philosophical wondering or something as simple as a breakfast decision? I have no idea; I don’t know them at all. The thought surprises me, I am shocked for a moment
that I don’t know the lone surfer, the person I set my watch by, the person I make a date with everyday, they are in fact a stranger to me, and I to them. I blink a few times and notice the lone surfer is gone, vanished whilst they occupied my thoughts. I turn quickly and make out the truck just turning away from the jetty, the low grumble of the engine stirring the morning air. I lie back on the sand; it feels cool and wet through my clothes. I dig my fingers into the small grains and push deeper against the sand. It’s cold. Opening my eyes they blur against the bright white of the sky and tiny floaters dance in front of my vision. I wonder what today will bring, just for a moment considering what it would be like to have a purpose, a direction, a place where I was needed, where I would be missed if I didn’t appear at a set time. I don’t want to move, to leave the beach, all of a sudden I have no energy and my body feels like lead. I lie there, and the lone surfer, I know is somewhere else, starting their day.

the lone surfer…unfinished…part five

nooshk — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 16:48:10 +0000

The local Chinese take-out is about a fifteen minute walk from the house. I like the walk, after being inside most of the day it feels good to get out and get moving. The streets are busy with holiday makers, choosing restaurants, shopping for gifts, having pre dinner drinks. They get in my way, making me pause and stumble, interrupting my flow. Eventually, as I reach a quieter area, they thin out, only a few remain, trying to look like locals. Then I see it, on the corner, Ming Kee, the lights on, the windows steamed up. I push open the door and a chime rings out announcing my arrival. It’s pretty quiet, I think as I stand in line. A couple of teenagers wait at one of the plastic tables in the corner; they are drinking cans of soda and counting their money, all chipping in handfuls of coins. One has his hat on backwards; one is wearing rollerblades and the other holding a skateboard. For a second they remind me of Jed, especially the one in the hat. I shake my head to clear the image of my brother that appears in my mind and focus on the task in hand. There is just one person in front of me; I don’t notice him until after he has ordered and he turns around. I’m looking at the floor and it’s shoes I notice first, those dirty sneakers from this afternoon. I look up and there are the faded jeans, vest, shirt and then the orange hair. He meets my eyes and half smiles before sitting down to wait for his food. I’m not sure he even recognised me but now I feel thrown, I don’t want to make polite conversation, I haven’t come here to make friends. It’s my turn now and the young girl behind the counter is waiting, pen poised to take down my order, but now I’m not even sure I want to stay. Half of me just bolted out of the door and the other half of me still really wants some noodles. In the end my tummy wins out and I order my food, not daring to turn around in case the random guy from next door tries to strike up a conversation. In the end I shouldn’t have bothered worrying; his order is ready before mine. I notice he has ordered a set menu for six people, and he leaves the take-out without a second glance in my direction, and then five minutes later I too am out of there, walking home, carrying my food in a plastic bag.

When the old navy blue car slows down next to me, I should have been surprised, but I’m not. Sometimes you just get a feeling that wasn’t how the evening was going to end. The passenger window is open, “Hey” he says, slowing the car right down. “You live next door, right? Can I give you a ride home?” I stop walking and look at him, it’s the same guy alright, that orange hair. He is driving with one hand on the wheel and I notice his food on the back seat and the glowing tip of a cigarette in his left hand.

“I’m ok thanks,” I reply “I like walking”.

“Oh ok” he says. I can’t help but notice he sounds disappointed “but I’m right aren’t I? You do live next door, I’ve seen you sitting out on your porch at night.” He has totally stopped the car by now and is leaning over the passenger seat. “Yeah that’s me” I answer and push my hands into my jean pockets, rocking back on my heels, “I’ve seen you too, and your guitar” I add, as an afterthought. He laughs, and self consciously pushes his hair back, “right yeah, that’s me, me and my guitar.” I smile, not sure what to say next. He looks embarrassed and nervously clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “better get this food back to the hungry troops back home, sure you don’t want to jump in?” I pretend to look like I’m thinking about it, “I’m sure I say, like I said I like walking.”

“Right ok,” he says and starts the engine again; I step away from the kerb and have started walking, taken two steps when he speaks again. “I’m Ben” he says, just that, and then with a roar from the engine he is gone, just his tail lights in the distance. I stand still, just for a moment. I take a deep breath and whisper “and I’m Lydia.” As I walk home, I remember, I didn’t even notice if he had freckles, I had forgotten to look.

the lone surfer…unfinished…part four

nooshk — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 17:22:29 +0000

Later, I get a craving for Chinese food, something sweet and salty. Noodles flecked with the red heat of hot chillies, beef with green peppers and crunchy cashew nuts, and little crisp filo pastry parcels full of vegetables and shrimp. And prawn crackers, fortune cookies and cold beer. My mum used to make great Chinese food; we would call it Hong Kong Sunday. It was the one day of the week when we would all make an effort to stay in, to not make a date with friends, to leave the car in the garage to even turn off the TV; even Dad would stay around, but never for too long. I remember how the steam from the cooking would fog up the windows, I used to sit on the work top and write messages in the condensation. There would be pots and pans all over every surface, mum would tie her hair up and put on an old pinny. She would put the radio on and sing along to Madonna or Michael Jackson… She would have a bottle of wine open next to her. She didn’t follow a recipe book; I guess she made it up as she went along, a little bit of ginger here, a splash of fish sauce there, two chillies one week, and three the next. It didn’t always taste the same, sometimes it was super spicy, sometimes hot and sour, sometimes more delicate with coconut and jasmine.

Every other day of the week, it was make your own supper, so normally I had toast or crackers or if I was feeling adventurous macaroni cheese. My brother, Jed, explained to me later, that it was the one day of the week when we pretended, when we put on our costumes and played the roles we had been given, and played them well. Adoring wife, mother, and homemaker. Dependable, strong and easygoing, father. Cheeky, caring and mischievous elder brother. Quiet, clever and thoughtful younger sister. He said it was only on a Monday morning that the masks came off for the week, and there they lay amongst the debris of the weekend until the next Sunday evening, when we would dutifully put them back on again. It was easy to see why we loved Sunday nights so much. They made us feel more like the other families that lived on our street, they made us feel normal I guess, they gave the week a sense of structure and calm, that was missing the rest of the time. Afterwards when we had eaten and the dishes and bowls were empty and my brother was lying in the middle of the floor complaining that he had eaten so much he would explode, my mum would start clearing away, slowly, washing, drying, sorting. It never occurred to me, to any of us, to offer to help.

That, I suppose, is probably why Chinese food is my comfort food now. It must on some level remind me of those Sunday nights, spent with my family when I knew that for one night there would be peace, quiet and an attempt at warmth. That’s what I need tonight I thought, peace, quiet, warmth. After a day spent in the past, dwelling on events in my dreams, there was no need not to retreat back there now. I pulled on my sweater, although the days here are hot, the nights soon turn cool. Put my sneakers on, grabbed my wallet and with a bang of the door, I was gone, out in the night, to seek my solace, my escape, in a steaming bowl of noodles.

the lone surfer…unfinished…part three

nooshk — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 20:56:08 +0000

When I wake, it is mid afternoon and the heat seems to be subsiding. For now at least there is a breeze and the sun has lost its midday intensity. I take a shower and make some coffee, taking it out on the veranda. From here I have a pretty good view of the whole street, if you can call it a street that is, there are only six houses and only four that are lived in. There is this one, number four, where I am, at the top, on the curve of the road before it bends back round itself. Numbers one and three are empty, I figure they are just summer lets and that any day now a large group of holiday makers are going to descend on our small strip of paradise. At number 5 there is Monty, I have only met him once but he waves from his kitchen if he sees me, he must be eighty years old I think, all wrinkled and weather beaten. There are a couple of girls living at number two, I think they are students, I haven’t spoken to them yet, they go out pretty early in the mornings and keep themselves to themselves, I could smell a barbecue last night and think it was them. I haven’t figured out who lives at number six yet, there seem to be a few people, but I don’t think it’s a family, they don’t appear to know each other all that well, not that families always know each other well but they are there at different times and all seem similar ages, a summer house share I think. They are not very friendly and I haven’t spoken to them or them to me. One of them, a young man, is often sat out late on the wrap a around porch like me, he normally has a bottle of bear and a guitar, his haunting melodies fill the emptiness that I experience at night, and then the dark does not seem to surround me with such oppressiveness. I don’t like the sound of his beer bottle hitting the trashcan or the sound of his door closing, for then I know my demons will return and fill my head with their white noise. I see him now arrive home, his old navy blue car swings onto the drive with a low grumble. I can hear his car radio and then abruptly it shuts down, the dj in mid sentence. He opens the car door and stretches his legs out, they look long. He stays like that for a few minutes and I wonder what he is doing, then I notice a stream of cigarette smoke rising from the car. I can’t see his facial expressions at all, just his legs and the smoke. After a few minutes he throws the still burning cigarette butt out of the door and gets out of the vehicle. He stands, stretches and breathes deeply. For a brief second he caught my eye and I thought I saw a glimmer of a smile play around the edge of his mouth. I watched his retreating figure as he turned, and walked away from me and towards the house. He was wearing faded jeans, a vest with a shirt and dirty sneakers. His hair was orange, bright orange and stood on end in a quirky, spiky style. I hadn’t taken time to notice if he had freckles, but I imagine with that hair he did. I wondered what it would be like to join up his dots.

the lone surfer…unfinished…part two

nooshk — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 16:41:15 +0000

I wander along the road that backs onto the dunes, and then the sea, below them. Occasionally I pause to take in the view; it still really takes my breath away. This small town that sits on the edge of the peninsula really at times feels like the end of the world, maybe some day I will walk towards the horizon, and see if I just don’t walk right over the edge. The main street flanked on both sides by shops, cafes, restaurants and bookstores, there are lots of bookstores, leads directly onto a wide jetty. Boats are moored either side, just fishing boats really and dinghies, no real big yachts or anything, guess they are saving those for the marina some ten miles further round the bay. And then at the end of the jetty, there it is, the ocean. This great expanse of blue green water which sparkles when the sun hits it and pulses and rises and turns like it has a mind of its own, I think it does. I had never seen the sea before, only on films and on television. Nothing prepares you for it; it has the power to take life, not just one life but also many. It has the strength to wipe out whole villages, towns, and provinces. It is totally massive, yet at times it doesn’t really make a sound. As I make a right turn to leave the sea and the dunes, I feel as ever, that before I turn away I need to check on it one last time. So I do, I stand and survey the sea, the ocean, once more. I take in big gulps of fresh air, and feeling strengthened I turn my back on it until tomorrow.

I walk up the main street with the sea behind me and dodge early morning holidaymakers out to pick up breakfast. They are all the colour of lobster, as if the sun surprised then by coming out from behind the clouds. They carry newspapers and bags of pastries, the grease staining the paper, and coffee, carry out cartons of hot, fresh, strong coffee. Some sit on the chairs of pavement cafes, they all look slightly stunned, as if they are not totally sure how they ended up here, in this little town by the edge of the sea. I notice a couple, they look like newly weds, they are holding hands, she is gazing up at him, he looks as if he can’t quite believe his luck. They are trying to decide where to eat. I am walking quite quickly and pause to catch my breath, they settle on a café near where am I standing, I hear her ask him if he will share the pancakes with her. I turn away and continue up the street, the further you go, the shops and cafes peter out and it becomes more residential. I take a left, then a right and another left, and there it is, home. I push open the front door, left on the latch, and kick my shoes off. As I walk through the house, I notice how cool it is and savour the feeling as it hits my already warmed skin. My bed is at the back, I throw open the window, close the curtains and climb in. I pull the cotton sheets over my head and pray for sleep to wash over me, and relieve me from this present world I inhabit. Take me back I think, back to the past. And then I feel the tug and my eyes shut and I fall, backwards.

the lone surfer…unfinished…part one

nooshk — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 20:17:25 +0000

I see the lone surfer everyday. I watch as they twist and turn, weaving their way through the water. They seem as one with their board, not two separate entities, but one being, as if the board is an extension of their body and even their soul. I have never seen anyone so confident in the water, they own the waves. I watch as they wait for the right wave, I see it as it gets near, it swells, rises, as if some unknown force is pushing the water from below. They see it also; I sense how their body prepares itself for riding the wave. They paddle out to greet it, strong, swift, confident strokes. Then all of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, they are up on their feet, knees bent, arms held outwards for balance. They are riding the wave of water, they enter the curl of the wave and yes there they are, they come out the other side, victorious. They are a master, taming the wild beast, which is the sea. They are exhilarated, elated, exhausted. They return to where the sea gently laps at the shore. Sit back on their board, push back their hair and wait for the next one, the next wave, the next challenge. It is magic to watch. It calms me and soothes me from within, to watch the lone surfer.

I have been watching this lone surfer for a while now. They do not know that I set my watch by them and my visits to the beach, to watch them, give my empty vacant days some kind of vague structure. They do not know that ultimately they give me hope, some kind of strength to continue.

hello world

nooshk — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 20:03:31 +0000

So here is my blog, I have always kept scrapbooks, diaries and notebooks, but this time I aim to keep eveything together in one place. I hope you will enjoy my posts, writings, thoughts and stories and I look forward to your comments.