| By Kit Fennessy
|  Cape Paterson author and publisher Kit Fennessy has won third prize in the short section of the Bass Coast Prize for Non-Fiction with Sands of Time, a witty slice of memoir that seamlessly weaves together metaphysics, geology, history and Jimmy Hendrix. Kit has self-published a number of books, short stories and novels, which are available through ArtSpace (Wonthaggi) and the library, and released a new thriller titled ‘Cornerstone’ in October. |
I walked, forgetting to wear my watch. The steps weren’t counted.
But the seconds and years were.
At the top of the stairs of the Channel Beach, a cormorant surprised me by diving from
a cliff down into the Channel. The weather was wild, the Channel with terrific surging waves
pulsing into it which would have killed a person, breaking their body, flaying it against the
rocks. I waited in anticipation, holding a vigil for the fisher to re-emerge, counting to see how long it would last.
When I’d got to fifty, I wondered if I’d just imagined it.
Someone started climbing the stairs up from the beach, then the bird was there again,
bobbing on the foam as though it was the easiest thing in the world, hollow bones and light
frame enduring the a hostile environment. I walked away to avoid the company of the climber, enjoying my solitude.
But the seconds and years were.
At the top of the stairs of the Channel Beach, a cormorant surprised me by diving from
a cliff down into the Channel. The weather was wild, the Channel with terrific surging waves
pulsing into it which would have killed a person, breaking their body, flaying it against the
rocks. I waited in anticipation, holding a vigil for the fisher to re-emerge, counting to see how long it would last.
When I’d got to fifty, I wondered if I’d just imagined it.
Someone started climbing the stairs up from the beach, then the bird was there again,
bobbing on the foam as though it was the easiest thing in the world, hollow bones and light
frame enduring the a hostile environment. I walked away to avoid the company of the climber, enjoying my solitude.
| The sands blast along, driven by the wind A whisper over the surface Like flying Or a moving walkway. Tiny peddles of earth sting against your legs The universe and time flow made real Made visible… Time. |
Standing at the lookout at First Surf, a young family was below me on the beach. They
played in the waves despite the cold weather; a mum, two school aged daughters, a father and toddler; the youngest uncertain, amazed by its surrounds. It ran away from the water’s edge up the sand, then come back. Watching the kid, I could see the thoughts playing out; fear, fascination of the sea… running away, before realising they were too far from their mother and the group, checking, overwhelmed by the perspective of depth, then running back. I laughed out loud. A woman nearby looked at me appreciatively, understanding.
The scene reminded me of my old dad, mum explaining after he’d died how – with his
dementia – he’d get pleasure out of watching young children; implying (I thought) that he was sub-moronic.
But I totally got it. Joy, youth, discovery, kids who haven’t yet learned how to be
“smart”, starting out, all fresh and clean and free of guile and wickedness, full of wonder, the
motivations and logic of a mind coming into the light, moments that are touching and lovely.
As I walked around the point to seconds, the wind was terribly strong, making my eyes
tear, eliciting sad thoughts. Thoughts about my dad, dying, and our walks along the beach
when I was a child.
played in the waves despite the cold weather; a mum, two school aged daughters, a father and toddler; the youngest uncertain, amazed by its surrounds. It ran away from the water’s edge up the sand, then come back. Watching the kid, I could see the thoughts playing out; fear, fascination of the sea… running away, before realising they were too far from their mother and the group, checking, overwhelmed by the perspective of depth, then running back. I laughed out loud. A woman nearby looked at me appreciatively, understanding.
The scene reminded me of my old dad, mum explaining after he’d died how – with his
dementia – he’d get pleasure out of watching young children; implying (I thought) that he was sub-moronic.
But I totally got it. Joy, youth, discovery, kids who haven’t yet learned how to be
“smart”, starting out, all fresh and clean and free of guile and wickedness, full of wonder, the
motivations and logic of a mind coming into the light, moments that are touching and lovely.
As I walked around the point to seconds, the wind was terribly strong, making my eyes
tear, eliciting sad thoughts. Thoughts about my dad, dying, and our walks along the beach
when I was a child.
| Balance. An old crescent moon, still up at dawn, The sun rising and peering through clouds Two friends holding hands. The sun, the moon, the tides. All is balance. The sea breaks in two directions at the point. |
‘Who wants to come for a walk?’ he’d ask.
I can picture him now, my daggy dad; wearing dick dacks, balding, greying – a man of middle years back then, not turning to fat but gravity letting him down. My mum would be in her green and white bikini, reading a book under a straw hat, big square plastic red-framed sunglasses on. My sisters would be playing in the sea, or perhaps had disappeared to meet boys.
Which only left me. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
I’d follow, unwillingly at first. A basin haircut and thongs, a pair of board shorts chafing skinny inner thighs.
‘Do you know how birds fly?’ Dad asked after a while, the sand slopping off our thongs and feet.
‘No.’ Voice non-committal, bored even, secretly engaged. How DID birds fly?
‘The same way as an aeroplane,’ Dad said. ‘That’s how they got the design for planes, you know, looking at bird wings. Ya see, the leading edge of a bird’s wing is blunt, and then it tapers out behind, and when the wind hits it, it creates more pressure under the wing than above. The wind kind of leaps off the front edge and creates this small vacuum, and that’s what provides the lift, the difference in pressure. You can see it with sand dunes. See how on the sea side, they’re really steep? But then when the wind blows over them, it carries the sand behind and drops it much further back. A dune is the same shape as a bird’s wing.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
‘I used to be a pilot,’ he said. ‘They used to teach you that stuff in the Australian reserve
forces.’
It was true, I knew it. At home we had a stack of memorabilia, including his leather
crash helmet and a photo of him in a plane.
I can picture him now, my daggy dad; wearing dick dacks, balding, greying – a man of middle years back then, not turning to fat but gravity letting him down. My mum would be in her green and white bikini, reading a book under a straw hat, big square plastic red-framed sunglasses on. My sisters would be playing in the sea, or perhaps had disappeared to meet boys.
Which only left me. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
I’d follow, unwillingly at first. A basin haircut and thongs, a pair of board shorts chafing skinny inner thighs.
‘Do you know how birds fly?’ Dad asked after a while, the sand slopping off our thongs and feet.
‘No.’ Voice non-committal, bored even, secretly engaged. How DID birds fly?
‘The same way as an aeroplane,’ Dad said. ‘That’s how they got the design for planes, you know, looking at bird wings. Ya see, the leading edge of a bird’s wing is blunt, and then it tapers out behind, and when the wind hits it, it creates more pressure under the wing than above. The wind kind of leaps off the front edge and creates this small vacuum, and that’s what provides the lift, the difference in pressure. You can see it with sand dunes. See how on the sea side, they’re really steep? But then when the wind blows over them, it carries the sand behind and drops it much further back. A dune is the same shape as a bird’s wing.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
‘I used to be a pilot,’ he said. ‘They used to teach you that stuff in the Australian reserve
forces.’
It was true, I knew it. At home we had a stack of memorabilia, including his leather
crash helmet and a photo of him in a plane.
| I head towards the Cape. The stone. Undulating, elephant skin, pot holes with puddles, Sea anemones inside. A crack in the cliff, a cave The beginning of everything. This is the temple of the transient – None stop here. Usually the wind whips around the point Carrying sea birds - the birds wheel or hang. |
During the chats with my dad, examining the rocks that we walked on, I’d be overcome by the incredible nature of creation. The stones on which we trod were founded in stars exploding across the universe. Here we were, so small, but even the iron in our blood was forged in distant suns – the big bang, a singularity, from which all the stuff of creation poured.
‘How do you think this rock was made?’ Dad asked.
‘I dunno. Volcanos?’
‘Well, maybe,’ Dad said. ‘It’s hard enough, and it looks like it’s cooled as it’s poured into the sea. But maybe not. A geologist could definitely tell us.’ He thought for a minute. ‘But I think this is sedimentary stone. See the cliffs just there? See the lines going sideways? They used to be flat, I bet, and the lines are different layers of sand and grit falling on each other under the water. Over time the pressure got so great it pushed all the sand and mud and pressed it into stone. Those lines are sideways now because of the pressure of the earth. It lifted up out of the ground and tilted sideways, so you need to read the years going from left to right. Amazing pressure, all that rock. Tectonic forces. And those boulders there? That’s rocks falling off the cliff. That’s why you should never put you towel or rest in the shade under a cliff, son. Rock fall.’
‘How do you think this rock was made?’ Dad asked.
‘I dunno. Volcanos?’
‘Well, maybe,’ Dad said. ‘It’s hard enough, and it looks like it’s cooled as it’s poured into the sea. But maybe not. A geologist could definitely tell us.’ He thought for a minute. ‘But I think this is sedimentary stone. See the cliffs just there? See the lines going sideways? They used to be flat, I bet, and the lines are different layers of sand and grit falling on each other under the water. Over time the pressure got so great it pushed all the sand and mud and pressed it into stone. Those lines are sideways now because of the pressure of the earth. It lifted up out of the ground and tilted sideways, so you need to read the years going from left to right. Amazing pressure, all that rock. Tectonic forces. And those boulders there? That’s rocks falling off the cliff. That’s why you should never put you towel or rest in the shade under a cliff, son. Rock fall.’
| On the horizon a small fishing boat around the point Echoes the rising sun; A floodlight on the water. Two lights, One from man The other from heaven; The ant The giant. Building ramps over the dunes, windmills in the distance. A blot, a miracle. |
Walking onto the second surf beach, the sun created a glare through sea mist. I wore polaroid sunglasses to protect me from the rays and wind, heading out to F-Break, alone on the
sand. The sun was hidden behind a sheer yet unbroken veil of cloud. Through my sunnies the mists diffused light to create a green and purple aura, just like out of a 3d movie. It was almost like “being there.”
As I walked towards the light, I thought about the story people tell who’ve been brought back from death, who’d entered the light – an hallucination caused by the release of natural chemicals in the brain, apparently, to make dying easier. What a relief it would be to have that feeling, a release into light, subsumed as you complete your program of universal awareness, a thank you from creation for your job, a kindness.
Looking up at the weird lights in the sky, almost like a rip in the fabric of the universe, the song Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix came to mind. I arrived at the next bend in the beach, the rocks, and watched the water washing against the point. The line “Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?” reverberated with me. I’d previously ascribed the words to someone unnerved on drugs, having time dysmorphia, but it could serve as a glib description of the space time continuum – surfing on the cusp of time, all of us, the entire universe, standing on the end of a pool cue. There is only matter, altering constantly, at the end of time. New time fizzing along, as we keep going.
sand. The sun was hidden behind a sheer yet unbroken veil of cloud. Through my sunnies the mists diffused light to create a green and purple aura, just like out of a 3d movie. It was almost like “being there.”
As I walked towards the light, I thought about the story people tell who’ve been brought back from death, who’d entered the light – an hallucination caused by the release of natural chemicals in the brain, apparently, to make dying easier. What a relief it would be to have that feeling, a release into light, subsumed as you complete your program of universal awareness, a thank you from creation for your job, a kindness.
Looking up at the weird lights in the sky, almost like a rip in the fabric of the universe, the song Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix came to mind. I arrived at the next bend in the beach, the rocks, and watched the water washing against the point. The line “Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?” reverberated with me. I’d previously ascribed the words to someone unnerved on drugs, having time dysmorphia, but it could serve as a glib description of the space time continuum – surfing on the cusp of time, all of us, the entire universe, standing on the end of a pool cue. There is only matter, altering constantly, at the end of time. New time fizzing along, as we keep going.
| The line of Cape Liptrap in the far distance Traces in cool colours along the sea horizon. Undulating hills beyond it Crenelated towers, Clouds wisping from their spires. Purple, blue, bright green foreground More miles than you can walk. A distant land. A fairytale. There, across the sea. |
Rocks, sand, and sea, the white noise of waves, the wind blowing the sand at a blast, huge pacific gulls eating a dead and obscene looking fish on the shore.
The tears which the wind caused, the wind wiped away. On one of my walks with Dad, he said:
‘Never turn your back on the sea. Because it’s always changing, and you can never trust it. So when you’re out here on the rocks, never turn your back a, me boy, or it can come and take you in a heartbeat. Never turn your back on the sea.’
I shrugged at the time. I was, after all, only ten years old.
Fast forward nine years. I was nineteen, on a camping trip with friends, down on the South Australian border. My, it was wild down there. When we packed up our tent, we found an eight foot black snake sleeping under the floor, which had laid there for the warmth from our bodies overnight. It still gives me chills to think about it, I tell you. But that was the place my dad’s advice saved my life.
The sea was terribly rough, huge waves closing out, but it was hot, and we’d decided to have a swim anyway. My friends were all surfers and strong swimmers, but even they had enough after a few minutes, but I was enjoying the cool and stayed in. They retreated to the beach, and I turned to them and waved. But as I did, something strange happened. I was up to my armpits in the sea. And then the water started dropping. First it went down past my nipples, then to my belly button, then down past my shorts. As it travelled down my thighs, I could see my friends looking alarmed and heard my father’s words:
“Never turn your back on the sea.”
I turned around and the water was still going down my legs, to my calves, and then my ankles.
It had all gone into one wave.
A humongous life-ender, metres above my head, an anomaly, a blip in the rhythm, a super wave. I had just enough time to dive into its face before it bore me helpless back toward the rocks, black anvils to smash me to pieces. But I steered a course, emerging with a few scrapes, my friends rushing to see if I was alright.
“Never turn your back on the sea.”
The tears which the wind caused, the wind wiped away. On one of my walks with Dad, he said:
‘Never turn your back on the sea. Because it’s always changing, and you can never trust it. So when you’re out here on the rocks, never turn your back a, me boy, or it can come and take you in a heartbeat. Never turn your back on the sea.’
I shrugged at the time. I was, after all, only ten years old.
Fast forward nine years. I was nineteen, on a camping trip with friends, down on the South Australian border. My, it was wild down there. When we packed up our tent, we found an eight foot black snake sleeping under the floor, which had laid there for the warmth from our bodies overnight. It still gives me chills to think about it, I tell you. But that was the place my dad’s advice saved my life.
The sea was terribly rough, huge waves closing out, but it was hot, and we’d decided to have a swim anyway. My friends were all surfers and strong swimmers, but even they had enough after a few minutes, but I was enjoying the cool and stayed in. They retreated to the beach, and I turned to them and waved. But as I did, something strange happened. I was up to my armpits in the sea. And then the water started dropping. First it went down past my nipples, then to my belly button, then down past my shorts. As it travelled down my thighs, I could see my friends looking alarmed and heard my father’s words:
“Never turn your back on the sea.”
I turned around and the water was still going down my legs, to my calves, and then my ankles.
It had all gone into one wave.
A humongous life-ender, metres above my head, an anomaly, a blip in the rhythm, a super wave. I had just enough time to dive into its face before it bore me helpless back toward the rocks, black anvils to smash me to pieces. But I steered a course, emerging with a few scrapes, my friends rushing to see if I was alright.
“Never turn your back on the sea.”
| The atoll of the sea nymphs Splashes around stone Invisible ripples. The sea life at a macro scale Vivid greens, and blue, aqua Trails of shapes, soft velvet mosses Grasses on grey cliffs that wave in the wind. The wind-swept point That brings a tear to your eye. You feel overcome with emotion; Is it the wind that elicits such feelings? |
I’m a very different person to the kid taken unwillingly on beach walks when no one else would go. Fifty years old now, like the seconds counted for the cormorant, more experienced if not wiser, thinking of the walks we took. I wondered if I’d just imagined it.
I reached the spot, right out at the end of F Break, where there’s a shallow protected cove, a little stone bay with sea grasses on the cliffs, a lookout on which you can sit and watch the sun go down if you have a mind to. There’s seldom anyone there, and on a still day, you can almost see the water nymphs as they comb their hair, laughing in the sunshine while gentle zephyrs blow across the small point, a pool of reflection. That’s where I go to visit my dad now, when I miss him. It’s a bit of a hike, you’re walking for over an hour there and back, but I’ve felt his presence beside me before.
As I turned toward home, a woman walked past and said: ‘Have you seen any whales?’
‘Sorry?’ I replied, interrupted in my thoughts.
‘Have you seen any whales?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ve tried for years but never seem to see a thing.’
‘Oh, once you see them, you can’t unsee them,’ she said, her face weathered by the elements, still young but wind-blown, sun-cracked. ‘You’ll be seeing them all the time,’ she added. ‘They make a spout, just like out of a cartoon. Yesterday there were two males breaching and playing, all the way from second surf, around the point and then out here.’
‘I never know how far to look,’ I confessed. ‘I see phantoms in the water, but I don’t know if it’s channels, or wave caps, or maybe seaweed… How far out were they?’
‘Oh, not far. About a kilometre.’
I thought about that. How far was a kilometre? Twenty laps of a fifty metre pool. It’s a long way straight out. How far is the horizon? You never know.
‘The boys come first, followed by the girls who are going up to have their calves around Coffs Harbour,’ the woman said, curly haired and kind. ‘Then they come back around October to go back and feed down south.’
Back at the lookout, I peered – alone – out to sea wondering how far a kilometre was. I thought I could see spouts of water. Was it the whales? If it was, it was a big pod. I decided to borrow my old dad’s binoculars when I went back to town, from my mother.
I reached the spot, right out at the end of F Break, where there’s a shallow protected cove, a little stone bay with sea grasses on the cliffs, a lookout on which you can sit and watch the sun go down if you have a mind to. There’s seldom anyone there, and on a still day, you can almost see the water nymphs as they comb their hair, laughing in the sunshine while gentle zephyrs blow across the small point, a pool of reflection. That’s where I go to visit my dad now, when I miss him. It’s a bit of a hike, you’re walking for over an hour there and back, but I’ve felt his presence beside me before.
As I turned toward home, a woman walked past and said: ‘Have you seen any whales?’
‘Sorry?’ I replied, interrupted in my thoughts.
‘Have you seen any whales?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ve tried for years but never seem to see a thing.’
‘Oh, once you see them, you can’t unsee them,’ she said, her face weathered by the elements, still young but wind-blown, sun-cracked. ‘You’ll be seeing them all the time,’ she added. ‘They make a spout, just like out of a cartoon. Yesterday there were two males breaching and playing, all the way from second surf, around the point and then out here.’
‘I never know how far to look,’ I confessed. ‘I see phantoms in the water, but I don’t know if it’s channels, or wave caps, or maybe seaweed… How far out were they?’
‘Oh, not far. About a kilometre.’
I thought about that. How far was a kilometre? Twenty laps of a fifty metre pool. It’s a long way straight out. How far is the horizon? You never know.
‘The boys come first, followed by the girls who are going up to have their calves around Coffs Harbour,’ the woman said, curly haired and kind. ‘Then they come back around October to go back and feed down south.’
Back at the lookout, I peered – alone – out to sea wondering how far a kilometre was. I thought I could see spouts of water. Was it the whales? If it was, it was a big pod. I decided to borrow my old dad’s binoculars when I went back to town, from my mother.
| The sea. The rhythm of the waves White noise, a crash, the roar. Like lives spilling, time passing, Each wave unique. The curl of a break, cutting both ways. The close out and boom. There is no judgement No ethics or intent Just maths, the process, the machine, the art. Crystal cylinders – The light peaking over sand dunes Picks up the white froth Making rainbows in the air. To catch it in the telling, and make it stand up. Aye, that’s the trick of it. |