Making the Crossing

This is the first thing that I wrote to read out in my Creative Writing class.
Though I lost my nerve and did not read it out.

Making the Crossing

Sheesh!  It’s bloody cold when the waves lap against my … well, you know what.  Lap, I suppose.

“Get your shoulders under, then you’ll warm up!”  That’s what Dad used to shout.  Wisdom passed from father to son like water cascading down.

Water!  Can’t just forget all about it when it’s all about me.  Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink, or something like that.  Oh, I could really use a drink right now.

Dad taught me to swim.  That’s what parents do.  They teach their kids.  They look after their kids.  It’s what parents are supposed to do.  It’s what I was supposed to do.

Another step.  A bit deeper, a bit wetter, a bit colder.

It’s a beautiful place this beach.  France is just over there somewhere.  You can see it on a good day.  Can’t see it now obviously; it’s the middle of the night.  And it’s not a good day.

Funny how reflective the water is in the dark.  Stars twinkle above me, stationary in the heavens, while all around me their twins are dancing with mad abandon.  Talk about a split personality.  Up there, silently watching and judging, and at the same time down here partying.

Oh dear, the water’s not the only thing that’s surprisingly reflective tonight.  Stop dreaming and concentrate man!

I wonder how many people have set out to swim across the channel from this very spot.  Don’t suppose I’ll get that far.  Though you never know, maybe I’ll wash up in Calais.

I’m a far cry from your typical cross-channel swimmer.  Buoyant, lithe, lively, light, strong, fit, vital and energetic.  Not me.

Especially not light.  No, I’m too weighed down.  By my clothes, by a few coins in my pocket, forty pieces of silver, by my guilt.  Mostly the guilt.  Pushing me down, holding me down, keeping me down.

My feet are rooted in the sand, but my mind is drifting, memories floating to the surface of my consciousness like bubbles.  A smile, a laugh, a look, a kiss.  Each one rising, expanding, bursting, hurting, forcing outwards a spreading, growing ring of ripples that wash over me then fade away.

Washing over me.  Watching over me.

Wash away the sins of the world.  Where did I hear that?  Wash away the sins of me.  Not enough water in this sea for that.

One memory does not fade: a child, my child, my daughter.  I still miss her.  Every day, every second.  It never stops hurting.  No matter how much I drink, definitely not much water there, it can’t be numbed.

It was my fault.  I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off her, I shouldn’t have been distracted.

The sea can be an exciting place.  Wild, noisy, rolling, rising, falling, always moving, hypnotically calling.  But I should have ignored its siren’s song because it’s also a dangerous place.  For the briefest of moments I forgot that, and now I never can.

I didn’t see her slip.  I didn’t see her washed away.  I lost her, and I wasn’t even there three days later when she was found.

The rest is a blur, like watching my own life through a grey, damp mist.

The water’s over my shoulders now.  What do you know?  Dad was right.  I don’t feel cold any more.  I don’t feel anything.

I turn and face the shore.  I think it’s the shore.  Which way’s France?  Which way’s home?  North, south, up, down.  It’s all the same now.

I close my eyes.

I lie back.

I take a deep breath.

Idiot!  Force of habit.

I let the breath go.

I let myself go.