A journey across the pond

The cool wind had guided my sailboat to the centre of the pond and I was concerned that the ducks would take a hostile approach to this unidentified floating object and attempt to sink it before I even had a chance to get to know my new Christmas present with its impressive sails and sleek lines. I imagined it resting on the bottom of the murky pool amongst mud, weed and broken bottles tossed in from passing drunks. Some council worker would claim it for his own when he had to clean it prior to some foreign dignitary visiting town, despite my slightly wobbly seven-year old’s effort at engraving my name and address into its side.

“It’ll be okay Jackie-boy,” my grandfather assured me as he crouched beside me and threw his arm around my shoulder. Despite my wanting to believe him, all I could think to do was cover my eyes with my hands…

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…and I could see the bones in my hands as if I was looking at some X-ray machine.

"Face away from the blast, place your hands over your eyes, don’t be alarmed," the instructions reverberated over the tinny sounding loudspeakers on the deck. Moments later the light was brighter than we could have potentially imagined, as if God had plugged one hundred thousand lightbulbs into himself directly. Maybe this is what Reverend Paterson was talking about in church when he took mum’s funeral.

We were all excited about the prospect of visiting the South Pacific; the recruitment film had promised a life of adventure and all us lads had seen the native girls of the islands in the National Geographic. The senior officer placed the papers in front of me and provided me with the pen with which I proceeded to scribble Jack Forrester Hewitt.

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“Thanks, I guarantee you won’t regret it Mr Hewitt,” the crew member assured me as I handed my signed form for the island tour the next day. Mary and I returned to our regular chairs on the upper deck of the ‘Star Princess’ as we awaited the evenings entertainment and seating for dinner. Not being as sure-footed as I once was, much of my time was now spent sitting gazing over the ocean from the safety of a secure deck chair. In the late afternoon sun, passengers start to get excited about the presence of migrating whales and many clamber for their digital cameras and phones as a hail of flashes ignite the air. When my eyes readjust to their surroundings, I look to the starboard side and see a small yacht, sails fully set, hurling itself fearlessly into the setting sun. For a moment I see the hint of green and blue that my toy sailboat once had. I feel a light weight on my shoulder but there is no-one there. I expect my grandfather’s hand to reach down and scoop it up.



Andrew Hawkey