He looked at him and stroked his arms casually through the warm sea. At first glance the figure didn’t register with the old man and he continued to lazily scan the shoreline. But deep within him a scarred synapse crackled to life.
Reclining just enough to float he savoured the freedom of the water. It’s cold, rhythmical surge carried him, liberating his rheumy frame, reminding him of a body he once possessed.
He meditated on the scene; a crowded beach, restful and riotous in equal measure; the sluggish flow of tourists passing by on the boardwalk above; and overlooking them all, a family of hotels, their flaking eyes observing the familiar scene with a melancholy that he only now truly understood.
Their time would come.
Your time would come.
And soon.
The synapse surged. It pulled his attention back to the beach.
The old man found him immediately. Set amongst the collage of figures, his form was as familiar as a child.
The waves folded.
Water slapped.
He stared.
The young man on the beach was sitting upright, relaxed, with his arms outstretched, his elbows resting on his raised knees. Behind a pair of sunglasses he looked out to sea.
At him.
The old man started to move against the tide. To steady his focus.
It couldn’t be.
He couldn’t be.
He’d been dead these thirty years.
Nevertheless, there he was. Unspoiled by time. Youthful. Slender. And calm. Effortlessly calm.
The unmistakeable shape born to a soul more at peace in the water. The slope of the extended shoulders, the pronounced deltoids, and tapered torso, hours honed from cutting through the sea.
The old man’s mouth gaped.
This was impossible.
Yet there he was. The man he grew up with, sitting contented and alone on the sands.
Motherless and brotherless, the two had shared an immediate affinity as children and for over thirty years their lives intertwined; sharing experiments and adventures; encouraging approaches and consoling heartbreaks; toasting successes and drowning failures. Forged in innocence, they shared a kinship.
Until they didn’t. Until something insignificant led to years of estrangement. Until finally one day the old man learned too late that his truest friend had succumbed to a malignance. Without him.
Until now.
There he was.
Just as he remembered.
Alive.
The old man, kicked hard through the water. He needed to get ashore. Needed to hold him. To look him in the eyes. To apologise.
More than anything he needed to feel young again.
He called out and waved, but his old friend remained impassively cool, his features set, his hands interlocked.
The old man’s shouting intensified, drawing the attention of other swimmers. Realising he was not in distress they followed his line of sight to the shore, but when it was clear that there was nothing obviously amiss they ignored him.
He thrashed harder now, trying frantically to find a foothold in the shallows. He had to get back on land. Yet still the shore remained painfully distant.
Almost as though he wasn’t moving.
In frustration and exhaustion he came to a stop. Silenced his cries. Stared back at the beach.
Resigned.
Only now did his old friend move.
Slowly, one side of his mouth tilted into a wry, knowing smile.
The old man felt a burst of surprise. It really was him!
The shock of confirmation. He began to laugh uncontrollably. It grew bigger and louder until he felt a long forgotten, carefree joy coursing through him.
They were fifteen again.
Still laughing, the old man started again for the shore and when his foot touched the sea bed he stumbled. He lowered his eyes momentarily, and when he looked back at his friend he saw that the smile was gone.
The old man’s laughter faded. Suddenly afraid that he might scare his estranged friend away, he stopped moving. Only his head rested above the water.
‘What?’ he asked quietly.
The two looked at each other for a long moment. Then the young man unfurled his hands and gave a peaceful, resigned shrug.
A whimper escaped from the old man, but it was drowned out by sudden shriek of birds further along the beach. As though the seagulls were laughing.
The old man gave a fleeting, sideways glance along the shore. When he turned back, his friend was gone.
He turned away. He knew there was no point in looking for him.
He let the water take his weight again.
Let the waves wash away his tears.
Editorial
This actually happened to me a few days ago. I was floating in the sea when I thought I saw a dead school friend sitting on the beach. It wasn’t, of course, but it got the wheels turning. And that’s all I have to say on that!
Writing this pl@t, it occured to me that a few of the recent stories have had strong themes of death. One reason for this might be a book that I’m thoroughly enjoying at the moment.
Entitled ‘All The Living and the Dead’ by Hayley Campbell (Eddie’s daughter), it’s described as, ‘an exploration into the psychology of modern death, told through the remarkable people who deal with it every day.’ It comes highly recommended.
However, that might also be a lame attempt to excuse a deep rooted psychosis…
Pl@tpav - Telling Stories 