The Seaside

‘Morning Mary.’

Entering the kitchen and it’s much earlier than yesterday when I awoke, thank goodness, I hate sleeping in like a Snorlax. The mum of the house, Mary she’s here shining and being herself; how nice it feels like home. We fell asleep late last night watching a spaghetti western and the BBQ second time round worked well with the skewers. Prawns: a good idea.

‘Do you need anything?’

Shaking my head and humming along we talk talk talk like two old biddies at the bus stop. He’s sound asleep upstairs: good. I get to chat with the girl. Cat has brought something in-mouth, ‘Oh no, he’s caught something!’ Resignation in her voice, he drops it on the concrete slab and mews. She picks it up this little shrew and it’s squirming and wriggling on the palm of her hand, she strokes it the little thing, the cat licks blissful, and it stops to move. Mary cups him with the other, ‘Still warm’. Patter back to the kitchen.

‘That is amazing. Golf.’

He’s up and we’re watching sports news highlights and eating a croissant. Where shall we go today I wonder, ‘Where do you want to go today?’ I ask. Still in sleeping gear and unready to formulate (I understand) but the words come out ‘Dump?’ We drive in his mum’s car to the dump to get rid of sacks of leaves and other things: turned inside-out umbrellas. Mary’s been gardening and he smiles ‘I helped’, meaning he cleared flora from a fence. Screeching to a halt, a gate on the brow of a hill where the seagulls flock above massively.

‘I don’t mind.’

Where to go what hill to climb which sea to see. Godrevy is the place and I bring my shorty wetsuit. He has his board that slices through the car - a waxy smell of coconut. Pummelled to death by the sea. Salt water in my ears and up my nose and every orifice but who knows really, too many, wave after wave you lose sight apart from sky and sea and the taste of salt crackling on skin. Out of depth then washed up on to pebbles a STABBING pain shoots up the foot a fucking weaver fish got me ‘Ouch!’ yelled, he says ‘Are you ok?’ ‘No I’m not bloody ok what is that it hurts it hurts!’ R.N.L.I. white hut on top of cliff. Hop over there for me, trooper.

‘What time’s your train?’

Cream tea is a novelty. Hell’s Mouth is a sheer drop and a top suicide spot I’ve gathered. Red and yellow metallic cars glisten parked convivially close awaiting each owner’s return. Walking is a habit and talking is not when the wind rushes through the mouth teeth eye sockets; sun glare bouncing off to refract inside the skull. Enlightening sun spots. Brilliant blinding. Never wanting to return to the city they call home.