A Coming of Age
The Nationalist September 2010
There was a shriek of excited laughter followed by an emphatic handshake that sealed the pact. Two teenage girls, together by the sea's edge. The world was theirs alone for what may have been the very first time; their silhouettes outlined against a sinking orange sun. Without fear of parental reproach they unhooked their bikini tops, dropped them symbolically, joined hands and ran the length of the wooden jetty. With screams which ricocheted around the bay and an echoing splash of clear Adriatic water they were free from everything that had gone before. Free from the past; free from the incumbencies of the outside world and free from themselves. They had entered the sapphire waters as children and emerged exhilarated and ecstatic as newly-born adults.
As a middle-aged man alone on a balcony overlooking the bay, I was a voyeur, an intruder, an interloper in their moment. I could have turned my head and refused to look, but the act demanded it. Just before their moment of liberation they had waved to me. Then, they turned and waved to Alex the fisherman as he tied up his tiny blue boat – Alex waved back and ran a sculpted hand through his grey hair, he wore a wistful look, almost wishing for another chance at life. They waved to a couple who sipped wine on the gleaming deck of a barely swaying yacht. They waved to the world and declared their intentions openly and without remorse. And then they had run and jumped from the edge of that world.
I don't know what it was about that moment that almost moved me to tears. Whether it was the pristine newness of nature or my sheer contentment with life, in that place, at that time. Whatever it was I knew my eyes were wet and heavy. I tried to rationalise my feelings. I thought perhaps, like all tourists and travelers at some point in their wanderings, that maybe – just maybe – this is the place where I am meant to exist. That here among the pine-covered hillsides of an Adriatic island was where my destiny had lead me and that here is where I was intended to stay.
The two young women emerged from the waters of their conception, wrapped themselves once more in towels and giggled their way homewards. Two sets of perfect wet footprints following like faithful dogs. I could see their angular tent from my perch and the slow, dim glow of a gas lantern, burning yellow inside their canvas shelter as the sun finally bid the day goodbye and slipped beneath the horizon. The sound of laughter carried on the evening breeze across the bay and ruffled my hair with its fingers.
Was it because I too am a father that I had felt the need for tears? Had the moment stirred in me a feeling that someday soon, my own daughter would also become liberated and set out into the world as an adult. Would she symbolise that moment of liberation in a far off place, in some similar ritual without me bearing witness to the event? Would that be the instant of her metamorphosis, as a secret pact celebrated in a secret place? I knew that this thought above all others struck a jangling chord deep inside.
The lanterns of the late-season harbour restaurants were lighting as I left my room. Their reflections; blue, yellow, green, orange, played on the sea's surface – mocking their counterparts who were imprisoned in neat landlocked lines. Their captive cousins could not roll and swirl as they pleased on the playful waves. An owl hooted a single note and a sliver of silver moon lifted itself from behind the mountains – all the better to see the quiet harbour.
In the corner of Marko's Restaurant I dined alone and content with my thoughts. Marko, discreet as always, only appeared to refill my glass or bring another dish of steaming prawns or black risotto. In the navy-black distance the sea shuffled the stones of the shingle beach in waves and like the beating of the island's heart crickets found a common rhythm. Faint laughter arrived on the warm, night breeze.
They sat at a table close to mine, their faces glowing from sunshine and youth. "Bon soir, monsieur," they greeted me. Across the tables we passed pleasantries until my French gave out and the conversation moved seamlessly to English. "I am Sylvia and this is my best friend in the world, Eleanor," they giggled and touched hands. They spoke of their journey through the mediterranean islands, the people they had met and the sights they had seen. "It has been a big adventure," I smiled at their smiles until they slipped from their pretty, young faces. "But..." Sylvia seemed reluctant to continue, "...tomorrow we must go. "I will leave for University in London and Eleanor will study in Paris." Their hands joined across the table. Their eyes were wet like mine had been. "But we will always have this journey to remember."
When the moment had lifted I asked if they had enjoyed their swim. They giggled as one. "You saw us?" they asked together, "swimming?" and laughed aloud. I apologised and pointed to my balcony. "But it is not a reason to apologise," Sylvia announced seriously. "We were making a moment for later. It will be like a photograph we can share when we are apart." It was Eleanor's turn to become serious, "Some day we will tell our grand-children about our last day on the islands, and what we did to remember it." Again they laughed as one.
We said our goodbyes and I wished them good times. "We have had good times," Sylvia said from the restaurant door, "if we would die tomorrow, we have so many good times..." I sat watching their shapes disappear into the darkness until the slow, dim glow of a gas lantern, burned yellow at the end of the bay.