Cross Over

Coming off the sea, the breeze is restless, but not unpleasant. Savouring its feel, I taste the salt and fear that it carries. Somewhere beneath the tide, I almost hear children laughing – or maybe it’s only the wind rehearsing old sounds. If I could, I’d roll back time like a beach mat and start over. Here, all I can do is make the most of the golden hour, and October’s latent warmth before winter claws its way back in.

Apart from the odd straggler, the beach is deserted in the deepening light. I’m rarely drawn this way and hope my wait won’t be in vain.

Finn would have loved visiting the Old Pier in its heyday – when Victorian pleasure-seekers donned in their finest, exclaimed over the glass-domed concert hall that was its main attraction.

What would it have felt like to have been Finn?

What does it feel like now?

*****

The memory of visiting the Old Pier a century after it had been built – so vivid it nearly knocks me sideways.

By then, the rot had set in. The Concert Hall, long considered unsafe, had been boarded up, and the remaining buildings were consigned to amusement arcades and strings of gaudy trinket shops. The New Pier had long usurped its predecessor. For me, the fairground easily being the best part, though I’d have preferred the rides to have been wilder. As for Finn? Well, having been born one of life’s drips, he was terrified of everything that moved – even spewed up all over his trainers after I shoved him onto the “octopus” one time.

Where did all that fear stem from?

Certainly not from father. He was a real man’s man – not scared of anything. A sailor, he faced the sea the way he faced everything. Head on, unflinching. Maybe because I wanted to be fearless like him, I could never accept Finn’s terror. I see that now – when it’s way too late. If only I’d listened more and scoffed less, we might be walking together, exploring the beach as we used to.

All that love thrown away like an English summer. Maybe dad should have tried harder.

Maybe we all should’ve.

*****

In the thickening light, the shingle looks man-made – as if some giant intent on beach improvement has placed them in orderly piles. Probably part of some regeneration project – well-meaning, to prevent coastal erosion.

Something in me tears up at the sight of a man trudging along the boards of the New Pier. Right up to the last moment, I didn’t know if Finn would actually show up - but then today is a milestone birthday. A time of gathering in and remembering.

Swallowing, ocean grit chafes the back of the throat, eyes never leaving the solitary figure.

Bitterness rises….

Bringing up not bile but brine.

*****

Some things never change. The trainers squeak along the New Pier’s decking, simply a bigger version of the ones worn as a boy. The dark hoodie pulled up tight, an older version disguising lost years, Finn clings onto the railing staring out at a sea lacking even the slightest hint of blue.

A seagull screeches, lands on the beach.

Searching.

Finn disappears into one of the shops (maybe to buy gum?) before traipsing onto the fairground at the back of the pier.

Wiping drizzle from his glasses, he lingers outside the ghost train, the only ride he actually enjoyed. He’d come off it all animated – like he’d won a medal for bravery. Anything to do with ghosts and ghouls, and he was happy. Now, he’s saying something to the man at the barrier, but they don’t sell tickets there anymore.

Look. A finger points. You have to go to another kiosk …

Over there.

At which point Finn shrugs, loses interest. Trundles off.

In search of…

What?

Cutting a lonesome figure, he stands white-knuckled at the New Pier railing, glued to the scene across the water.

Unravelling the past.

*****

Rising up, a half-submerged relic, protrudes. Forming the untold fabric of a coastal town’s inner life, the remainder of this once formidable creation lies vanquished beneath the unforgiving waves.

By the mid-twentieth century, it was deemed unfit for use.

Rejected piece by piece.

Gradually demolishing.

Until one day when Finn was sleeping, hearing the blare of engines, I scrambled to join the crowd gathering on the shore. I watched, feasting on the sight of the Old Pier groaning in its death throes. For hours, the fire fighters tried to extinguish the flames.

Finn just cried when I told him.

Arson: it was believed.

*****

Beneath a wolfish moon, the wind picks up a banshee howl. Rain spattering from the curdling clouds, I recall feet scrunching along these speckled pebbles, boyish voices caught on wind-sprayed drizzle. All the while, circling seagulls swooped screeching, pecking at the remains of some old carcass.

Finn hated seagulls.

*****

Grudgingly, I admit my part in all this.

Being the older, more athletic one, always up for a dare.

Still, none of it justifies what actually happened.

On winter nights, I found Finn hunkered down, delving into a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings. Sitting at the kitchen table with mother, lapping up tales of the Old Pier’s grand past, gawping at photographs of huge columns being skewed into the seabed. Among them, a picture of the pier’s legendary architect, last seen shambling along the decking, before vanishing into mist.

Finn must’ve believed the rumours of the his ghost – it was said to rail against the world of an evening at the end of the pier.

An imaginative boy - that would be right up his street.

*****

There’s an inevitability to Finn, a man worn-down, hollowed out by disappointment, heading off this particular evening in a dinghy that looks a lot like dad’s old one.

Alone.

The sea spreads out like a vast expanse of shimmering glass; the waves ancient messengers, knock against the dinghy. Now closing in, the Old Pier rises up like the spine of some half-drowned creature, iron bones jutting from the deep.

Finn rows on, salt clinging to his face like a second skin. Then, ignoring the dangers, he reaches out and touches a decaying girder.

The metal shudders. A noise escapes – not quite wind – not quite voice – a thin, keening thread that twists between sea and sky.

Yet, Finn the man, lingers. As if seeking reparation – for leaving me stranded.

Then, reaching a decision…

Turning round, the stench of rust and seaweed wraps round him, but he ploughs ahead. When something emerges breaking the surface, the colour drains from his face. Suddenly, determined to escape, he uses every last vestige to pull away, and put distance between himself and those cursed iron bones.

Freedom looms on the shoreline, but then a hand rises – slick, pale and grasping. A shape gathers beneath the waterline, neither man nor shadow — pulling him in. For a few seconds, it weaves like an octopus refusing to relinquish prey.

Watching, a tear falls from my own salt-cracked, yet permanently youthful cheek. A remnant of a once shared love.

The dinghy spins, caught in the drag of some unknown tide. For a second, I see the width of dread in those pale blue eyes – then they vanish beneath – leaving only bubbles.

Powerless, I rise above the pier’s skeleton, waiting. Watching. A sentinel between two worlds.

The wind comes again, threading through the broken beams. A long, wavering cry gathering pace – calling out a name that might be his – or mine.

In the heaving water, there’s a stirring, a ripple of something breaking through.

But then, a sudden gust tears at the waves, shattering the image. As if the sea keeps what we cannot forgive ourselves for.

The wind circles like a vulture, and I can’t tell whether it’s pushing me in or pulling me out to shore.

Either way, it feels almost like a breath.

And I can’t tell anymore who is moving – Finn, or me.

Has he finally found the strength to win the battle, or has he succumbed to that glowing line of light streaming ever closer? Or, was the wind simply calling him to cross over?

As it did me…