Footprints

There were two sets. One a little larger than the other, and they were close to each other, the footprints of two people walking side by side. They stretched backwards towards the long part of the beach. Dave couldn’t see where they might’ve started. He could however, see where they were headed. They led towards the rocky point at the end of the beach. He started to follow their temporary path. Hurriedly, as the anxiety that came lifted up in him like slowly like the incoming tide that threatened to steal the path from him.

Dave was almost jogging by the time he came to rocks. Walking on the sand had been easy on his feet, but now the hard rocks and sharp remains of shellfish slowed his pace. There wasn’t a track to follow anymore, but he knew they must be here. This is where the footprints had led, and he knew they were fresh, their outlines still sharp. He scrambled up the lowest, least steep slope of the outcrop. He was excited. He let his guard down, the steady, straight trail of footprints had given him hope. This would be the first time Dave had seen another person in almost a week. He felt he was going mad, maybe he already was. He looked back, no, the footprints were really there.

He came over the top of the rocks and looked down on a smaller section of sandy beach, maybe only twenty metres long, a wall of rocks again at the end of the sand. To his left, away from the water and near a cliff he saw a couple kissing, their arms wrapped around each other. It almost embarrassed Dave to interrupt them, he felt like he was intruding, but the excitement of seeing other people was too much “Hey!” he shouted happily “Hello. Hi.”

The couple broke apart and turned around to face him. Dave instantly regretted his mistake. Their eyes were the same empty, dead, glowing yellow as the others a few weeks earlier. How was he going to get away without a car to speed off in this time? He was panicked and frozen; he didn’t even begin to run away. The couple saw him, after half a second of recognition they were rushing towards him. Dave never had a chance. 

Long Summer

They're a long way from the city now, well, it certainly feels like it anyway. They've left behind the expectant feeling of the morning exodus. Roads filled with cars filled with people heading away, all heading to somewhere they'd rather be. The roads are like the silhouette of a tree in winter, thick and solid close to the base, and slowly thinning out as all of the branches head their separate ways, find their own little private space closer to the sun.

But the expectation has left them by this point in the journey, there are few other cars on the road here, the road has turned to gravel, and it winds enough to slow the pace of the driving. It feels like they've already arrived. This part isn't the last of the journey it’s the start of the holiday. Sometimes the road winds itself around a point to a bay scattered with little buildings. Tents are speckled on lawns and families enjoying the sun populate front decks. Boats of all sizes dot the gulf and highlight the distance back to the city, just shimmering in the distance, above the sheen of water.

The car comes over the crest of the last hill and the bay opens up in front of them, a long white sand horseshoe pointing north. There isn't a whole lot at the bay, one or two houses on the periphery, some buildings at the heart of the camping ground, and a sprinkling of tents in a chain along the green strip on the edge of the sand. It's like a picture in front of them, static and pretty, frozen summer imagery. There are other people at the camping ground, but not too many. It's busy enough to feel festive but empty enough to feel remote. And it is remote, the road only goes on for another kilometer or so, then that's it, it stops at the next bay. 

They're only here for a week but after one day it already feels like that much time has passed. It feels like the tent has been standing for at least that long, and the drive up to the bay feels like a lifetime away now that the sun is setting for their first night. On their second morning they wake up to the warmth of sun shining into a tent. The early morning summer sun is white and all encompassing, it's the kind of light that feels eternal. They walk from the tent, down the gentle slope of the beach, and into the water for a morning swim. The actions feel slow, a sleepy ritual. When they're back from the cool salty wake-up they lie on their towels. Out towards the horizon they notice something odd. 

There's a wall of water in the distance, a wave but bigger than they've ever seen. It looks almost still; it could be coming closer, maybe. They both lie back on their towels for a moment, the moment stretches on as their limbs stretch out and absorb the heat that's bouncing back up off the sand, coming from all angles. Nothing is happening, even the sun seems to be shining more slowly. The wave on the horizon has moved closer, its speed slowing. They lie on the beach and feel the summer on their skin, the kind of summer feeling that lasts forever in their childhood memories. The wave slows but keeps moving towards them, growing bigger, inching towards them, an imminent disaster. They don’t feel panicked. It feels to them like the tsunami will never come, not in this ever slowing, comfortable, eternal summer. 

In Transit

It’s a dream; it’s in between time. Nothing much happens, you go then you come, mostly you just wait. There is a lot of waiting. A lot of waiting and very little sleeping. The settings change but only just a little bit, they’re a watered down version of the place you’ve just been, or the place you’re arriving at. The fast food is more or less the same. There is never good coffee. The mind tends to wander when you’re in transition, it can feel like you’re at a destination, that this is a place. This isn’t a place, it’s the essential part of getting to that place you’re excited to be. The excitement of the travel gets caught up with the actual travelling. Airports are a place to love. And a place to loathe.