I Must Go Down to the Sea Again

From: Bev Wood bev.wood@xtra.co.nz

31A Hillcrest Road

Hamilton 3216

NEW ZEALAND

I Must Go Down to the Sea Again

The Pacific Ocean keeps coming and going, crashing on the sand before running back in little eddies. Swirls of broken shells line the shoreline, like broderie-anglais that edged my long-ago summer skirts. Swallows, carefree as we had been carefree are playing tag, twirling and darting.Oyster catchers, a proud couple, strut along the water’s edge, their red eyes peering, alert. As I approach they run swiftly on skinny legs calling shrilly to each other, “Come here, come here…” Once danger has passed they resume their task, prodding and poking, fussy caretakers of the beach.

There is no-one else in sight. I kick off my shoes and socks and roll my trouser legs up exposing my winter white legs.The water feels cold to my city feet. I feel the tug of the sea pulling, teasing. The oyster catchers call, “Watch it, watch it…”

The pohutukawa, gnarled like ancient guardians of the bay cling to the cliffs. Beach houses like noxious weeds have sprung up on the farmland where once we’d roamed freely. There’s now a surf club dominating the shore line, a trendy cafe and a general Store that sells everything from buckets and spades and fishing gear to fancy swimwear and tempting food to attract the city dwellers who arrive for the summer. It wasn’t the least bit like this when we were children when hardly a soul; had discovered this idyllic spot. I turn my back and gaze out to sea, remembering…

‘’’’’’’’’’’’

We travelled for miles, dust flying out behind us. After grinding up yet another steep hill Dad pulled into a clearing. A stream gurgled past, jumping over boulders before disappearing into the bush. Dad opened the bonnet to let the engine cool before filling the radiator with water from the stream. Jim, Susan and I gathered sticks to light the thermette. Mum spread a rug on the grass and unpacked the picnic. Bacon and egg pie had never tasted so good.

“A cuppa brewed in the thermette is the best tea ever,” Mum said.

“Too right,” Dad said lying back and closing his eyes. “Let’s pitch camp here.”

“But where’s the beach?” Susan asked, tears gathering in her eyes.

“Dad’s teasing, you silly galoot,” Jim said.

“I must go down to the sea again…,” Mum started.

“To the lonely sea and the sky…” we joined in.

Dad stood up and stretched. He stowed the picnic gear into the boot. We clambered back into the car and sat quietly as we drove up and down hills peering out to thick bush and valleys way below. Sometimes Dad pulled to the side of the road to let other cars pass. We wound the windows up and waited until the choking dust had settled before driving on.

“I can see the sea,” Jim shouted at last.

And there it was, shimmering in the distance. We jumped up and down with excitement.

“That’s enough,” Dad said with a chuckle. “It sounds as if World War Three is breaking out.”

A short time later we bumped up a drive to a line of pohutukawa trees.

“The perfect spot,” Dad said.

We practically fell out of the car with excitement.

“All hands on deck,” Dad said. “No shilly-shallying until everything is shipshape.”

We didn’t need much persuading.

“Troops at ease, dismissed,” Dad said at last.

We kids were off. There was the ocean spread out before us. Dad was back from fighting in the Pacific and we were a complete family again. What more could we want?

The next morning as the sun filtered through the leaves onto the tent Jim lifted the flap and peeped out. Dad turned over with a little snort, the camp stretcher squeaking. Mum and Susan slept on. Jim beckoned me, fingers on his lips. We crept out into a world fresh and beautiful. From the top of the sand dunes we watched the sea plopping onto the shore. But there was someone else on the beach before us.

“It’s probably a Jap who doesn’t know the war’s over,” Jim whispered as we followed a line of footprints along the shore.

“Or maybe a German U-boat come to check out a landing place,” I said.

Over rocks we scrambled. Then we saw him, a tall boy with a fishing line in his hand. Gulls screeched above our heads. The stranger turned and looked in our direction. We ducked behind a rock but we were too late.

“Friend or foe?” a voice called.

“Friend,” we replied in unison.

Carl was older than us. He was staying with his grandparents on the farm. He was sixteen, tall and strong. He’d got his blonde hair from his Norwegian grandfather, Mum said, and his brown eyes and complexion from his grandmother. Carl knew the best time to catch fish. He knew the best place to dam the stream and where the best rock pools were. He knew the names of the different sea birds and the trees in the bush. Susan thought Carl was her own special friend. He carried her when her little legs were too tired from following us around. He built sandcastles with her and gathered shells to decorate

them. He taught her how to swim. But he was Jim’s and my friend too. He showed us how to weave mats from flax for our hut in the bush.He showed us where the fattest huhu bugs were to use for bait, and the best spot in the creek for catching eels.But sometimes we just sat quietly, Carl drawing in his notebook while I wrote stories and daydreamed.

One day we collected driftwood and built a bonfire on the beach. In the evening we sat around the fire cooking potatoes and sausages in the embers until they were blackened and delicious. Carl strummed his ukulele and we sang until we were hoarse.Then Mum started, ‘I must go down to the sea again…’ and we all joined in. We fell silent as the full moon appeared over the horizon creating a silvery path across the ocean. I felt I could’ve stepped on to it and followed it to the other side of the world to a magic kingdom.

When the embers died down we doused the remainder of the fire with buckets of sea water and covered it with sand. Mum took Susan’s hand and the rest of us reluctantly followed.

“Young Carl is a fine lad,” Dad said to Mr. Andersen the next morning.

“He’s a good Viking,” his grandfather said.

“He’s a fine Maori warrior,” Carl’s grandmother added.

“He’s a going to be a famous artist one day,” I said.

Carl grinned. Later when no-one was looking he handed me a sketch. It was a drawing of me under the pohutukawa writing a story in my notebook. I have it still.

On the last day of our holiday as we clambered over the rocks I slipped and grazed my leg. It hurt so much I couldn’t help crying.

“Sooky,” Jim said,

Carl could see my leg was really sore. He helped me down off the rocks.

“Wash it in the sea,” he said. “The salt water will help then I’ll piggyback you home.”

I clambered onto his strong back and put my arms around his neck. It was a long walk along the beach to the tent but Carl didn’t complain.

“I’m going to marry you one day,” I whispered in his ear

……

We never went back to Whangapuka and we never saw Carl again. Over the years I saw glowing reviews of his artwork and I felt a pang for something unfinished. As for me after nearly thirty years of marriage my husband announced he’d found a newer model. I’d become superfluous. For a while I felt sorry for myself until one day I decided it was time to get on with my life.

“Carpe Diem,” I muttered to myself. “There’ll never be a better time”.

I went back to work. Finally I’d saved enough to follow the silvery pathway across the ocean to explore the magic kingdoms of my dreams. I visited the cities and outback of Australia. I wandered the back roads and alleys through Asia. I explored London, Paris, Florence, Athens… But something was missing. I needed a purpose…

I came home and started writing.

“You’re not bad for a late bloomer,” my son said when my first novel was published.

Now I have something else to look forward to. In a few days I’m off to London to launch my latest book. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the reassuring crinkle of paper. I slip the card out of the envelope and look at it yet again.

“Jillian Johnson is invited to the opening of an exhibition ‘I Must Go Down to the Sea Again…’ by Carl Tamihana Andersen to be held in the Royal Academy, Piccadilly, London…”

I turn the invitation over and read the handwritten note on the back, “I love your books, as I knew I would. I am so looking forward to seeing you again. We never did finish that conversation. Carl.”

I stand under the pohutukawa. Clouds are gathering on the horizon. A few rebel rays of sunlight catch the darkening sea, pirouetting on the restless ocean. They are dancing just for me.