Ossian Bone sits at the window of his
cabin, looking to the sea. The waves – tranquil ripples – lap at
the shingle, and presently he is carried, all but physically, out
onto the gentle swells. Bobbing serenely along, he is afforded a new
view of a familiar coast. He can see the stones on which he stole a
few caresses of a beloved hand which, for the time being, had
belonged to another. That night was a long time ago and the young
girl crowding his memory is long gone. This county he now regards is
one of teenage love, of hands clasped beneath blankets in the back of
parental cars. It is a land of pure sentiment, unadulterated by
rational concerns – one in which he has lived mostly as a little
boy, learning to feel and experiencing everything with a blistering
intensity, so much so that it hurts. Presently, Ossian feels
curiously bereft. Could it be that he has had a finite amount of
emotion to give?
He relaxes and gives himself over to
drifting once more, allowing himself a little turn in the water. The
open sea is flat, silken and glistening. His surroundings have been
caught at permanent early-twilight as if pursuing the end of an
endless, hazy summer day. Oh, to be ever-sailing in a little boat on
such a perfect sea as this. All men find themselves drawn to the sea,
but few are allowed to possess the rarefied sea of their dreams. He
sighs, he could almost slip away. His mortal coil slackened
sufficiently by the extreme calm. It wouldn't be that much effort
just to give it a little shake.
He is returned to near wakefulness by a
light splash to his port side. He has drifted some way out now, but
can still make out the stretch of beach on his he and his father
would volley stones into the trembling water with catapults - the
boys-will-be-boys, impish weapon of choice. Even in his prime his
missiles would never have reached this far out to sea, but clearly
this fantasy has gifted him a stronger arm. The father from whom he
borrowed his technique is a little crumpled now. Still of similar
spirit, but aching a little more, drinking a lot less and moving with
the pace of one who is slowing towards an inevitable stop.
Can one ever know one's own velocity,
or when your arc will be arrested? Ossian feels a tremble in the
dream and realises that the sun is setting at last. He has known
those for whom this shore has gone unvisited. Those who rest. He
wants to shake them back awake and show them the firefly streetlights
illuminating the fantastical promenades that could have been. There
is a little lost part of him that wishes to surrender, to dissipate
across this sea. To be everywhere – to never be lost again. To
never be found.
And there is another part which wishes
to form a distinct shape. To return to land a certainty. It is these
two competing halves that leave him floating, fluctuating on a sea
that may never really have been there.
