There's always been something about the sea that's enticed me. Something about the salty air, the cool breeze, and the idea of a dark ship in the horizon that's always drawn me to the darkness of the water. The eerie mysterious feeling of what lies beneath, the inability to separate the horizon from the water- making you think you're sitting in an oil canvas with no imagination.
Yesterday was no different. I enjoy the sea for what it is, for the shivers it brings down my spine. With the knowing that there's more life to this than what meets the eye. But yesterday was not about the sea. It was about people. It brought my attention to the stars instead, shining so wisely from above. They, who saw everyone. Who anticipated words and conversations. If I ever had the chance to speak with them before the velvet cloak of night and cloud embraced them, what would I say?
The light was focused upon my drawing. A cumbersome effort to recreate the shoreline. Pencil in hand, eraser in mouth. Then I heard voices. Soft, accented and slow, almost shy, and the reply of my friends to it. I turned to find a girl of 21 behind me, looking wistfully into the dark sky. Night brings no vision but that of silhouettes, and shadows. She was forlorn, her smile wan. As they spoke I listened, and feigned interest in my pathetic artistic endeavours. Finally I could stand it no longer, but looked with interest at this girl, so like myself a year ago, and spoke to her in her own language. How her face brightened, and her eyes read relief. 'Watashi no mae wa Ann desu.' A hand goes to her heart to signify herself. I smile. 'Sara desu. Yoroshiku.' She asks about my nationality, not understanding how I would speak a foreign tongue. I tell her, and she laughs. Her laugh tinkles and rings, and the stars laugh with her. She isn't Japanese either. We exchange numbers, and she walks away slowly, dainty little steps, one by one, not wanting to waste the night air. She dances without knowing it. Her lone figure fades into the darkness and I wonder for a moment if it was all a dream, but I see the pencil markings I've made on the side of a box of biscuits and I know it's for real. I hope we meet again. And that when we do, that the look of lonely desperation won't be there anymore.
There is someone else. Someone younger. With 5 years of age to her credit, Pei Li looks at me squarely. I tell her I'm 17. "You should be 10," she says. "10?" "Yes, 10. Cos, you're so big!" I laugh and ask, "Then, what is 17? Is that old?" She doesn't look at me but I get an emphatic "yes!" The ability of a child to comprehend age and time is strangely warped, but I like this child anyway. Maybe it's her slightly authoritative tone, or her persistence with the sand she nudges with her tiny shoes, or more likely, it's her unbashed manner with which she holds court as queen. "come on, you need to help! Cover this one" And she nudges the stones in the sand with her shoe. It's all a game. Everything holds appeal to this small one, whether it's the car windows, the seatbelt, the dishwasher or the sand under the wheels of the space wagon. I'm wearing slippers, but apparantly it makes no difference. I shove sand in the appointed direction and play along. Finally, the jaggered stone is covered and she stamps on it, leaving a mark from her white canvas shoes on the sand. A clover. I smile. And try to remember what it's like to be a child. Innocent, and ignorant. And bossy. When it's time to go, she scramble into the front seat and whispers into the window, "Sand." The glass fogs up, and she looks so small... I hardly see them drive off. I'm too busy crossing the highway. It's not usual protocol. And it's not advised, really.
I come back to the familiar scene of things. Papa the sage- holding his rod with an all knowing look. Ariel throwing his line in so hard the bait's likely to come off even before it hits the water. We've told him a hundred times not to fall in. The pufferfish wait. To swallow hooks. To annoy. Maybe that's why the Japanese eat them.
The surreal magic of it all never leaves the place. The sea never relinquishes its charm.
Yesterday was no different. I enjoy the sea for what it is, for the shivers it brings down my spine. With the knowing that there's more life to this than what meets the eye. But yesterday was not about the sea. It was about people. It brought my attention to the stars instead, shining so wisely from above. They, who saw everyone. Who anticipated words and conversations. If I ever had the chance to speak with them before the velvet cloak of night and cloud embraced them, what would I say?
The light was focused upon my drawing. A cumbersome effort to recreate the shoreline. Pencil in hand, eraser in mouth. Then I heard voices. Soft, accented and slow, almost shy, and the reply of my friends to it. I turned to find a girl of 21 behind me, looking wistfully into the dark sky. Night brings no vision but that of silhouettes, and shadows. She was forlorn, her smile wan. As they spoke I listened, and feigned interest in my pathetic artistic endeavours. Finally I could stand it no longer, but looked with interest at this girl, so like myself a year ago, and spoke to her in her own language. How her face brightened, and her eyes read relief. 'Watashi no mae wa Ann desu.' A hand goes to her heart to signify herself. I smile. 'Sara desu. Yoroshiku.' She asks about my nationality, not understanding how I would speak a foreign tongue. I tell her, and she laughs. Her laugh tinkles and rings, and the stars laugh with her. She isn't Japanese either. We exchange numbers, and she walks away slowly, dainty little steps, one by one, not wanting to waste the night air. She dances without knowing it. Her lone figure fades into the darkness and I wonder for a moment if it was all a dream, but I see the pencil markings I've made on the side of a box of biscuits and I know it's for real. I hope we meet again. And that when we do, that the look of lonely desperation won't be there anymore.
There is someone else. Someone younger. With 5 years of age to her credit, Pei Li looks at me squarely. I tell her I'm 17. "You should be 10," she says. "10?" "Yes, 10. Cos, you're so big!" I laugh and ask, "Then, what is 17? Is that old?" She doesn't look at me but I get an emphatic "yes!" The ability of a child to comprehend age and time is strangely warped, but I like this child anyway. Maybe it's her slightly authoritative tone, or her persistence with the sand she nudges with her tiny shoes, or more likely, it's her unbashed manner with which she holds court as queen. "come on, you need to help! Cover this one" And she nudges the stones in the sand with her shoe. It's all a game. Everything holds appeal to this small one, whether it's the car windows, the seatbelt, the dishwasher or the sand under the wheels of the space wagon. I'm wearing slippers, but apparantly it makes no difference. I shove sand in the appointed direction and play along. Finally, the jaggered stone is covered and she stamps on it, leaving a mark from her white canvas shoes on the sand. A clover. I smile. And try to remember what it's like to be a child. Innocent, and ignorant. And bossy. When it's time to go, she scramble into the front seat and whispers into the window, "Sand." The glass fogs up, and she looks so small... I hardly see them drive off. I'm too busy crossing the highway. It's not usual protocol. And it's not advised, really.
I come back to the familiar scene of things. Papa the sage- holding his rod with an all knowing look. Ariel throwing his line in so hard the bait's likely to come off even before it hits the water. We've told him a hundred times not to fall in. The pufferfish wait. To swallow hooks. To annoy. Maybe that's why the Japanese eat them.
The surreal magic of it all never leaves the place. The sea never relinquishes its charm.
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