The rush of the dark sea breeze hits me full force in the face. I’m unprepared and ill-equipped for the journey. As usual. The sand threatens to devour my flimsy green sandals and my thin raw-silk stole is no match against the fierce wind, now flapping around my ear. I’m certain that in the end, it has all the makings of catching the classic head-cold. The one that I put off taking action against and fool myself into thinking will not affect me too badly, but which lingers on and leaves its scar anyway. But as always, the thrill of the not-knowing, of the tiny possibility of an unpredictable discovery, caves me in. So I slip out of my flip flops, and with them in hand, begin to gingerly trace the vast curve of the shore, bare feet.
I’m wondering what it is about the sea that makes it so consumingly and magnetically hypnotic. Of the countless stories it might have witnessed the beginning of… all the wordless conversations it might have imbibed, soundlessly. Tonight, it betrays its seemingly endless, velvet menacing blackness to me. A cloud breaks and I pluck at silvery-white shafts from the liquid pensieve of the moon. It also lights up a million pinpricks across the ink blue tapestry overhead. I’m told then, of a fancy gizmo app that can help reveal the names of the constellations. We try to test it out, but this dims their allure a bit. I’d rather plot my own constellation instead. Pick out all those different scattered bright sparks that you want to draw lines to from where you are, across the awning distances. But I turn my attention instead to the little theatrical scuttle that nocturnal crabs are presenting at the edge of the ocean. A dangerous game if you will, as there’s every possibility of them getting swept off their nimble pincers by the fast advancing high tide. Do crabs know how to swim? I’m not sure, but you would think they should have learnt to by now.
It isn’t long before I join them in their silly game with the sea. But squeals of laughter don’t seem to faze the foaming waves snapping at my feet. My sling bag, now drenched, bears the brunt of the charade. Eventually though, it’s exhausting, this oscillating ebb and flow..or maybe, I’m just tired of playing games now. A blind carbon copy. Isn’t going with the flow NOT supposed to be laborious? Greasepaint and stage arc lights held their charm in musical school plays. When I knew for certain, the role I was playing, where my character fit into the plot and the choir song that was next on queue. But that was a long time ago.
The turtles seem to be playing their eluding game with us as well. But apparently, if you stay on long enough, search hard and read the signs, you might just catch a glimpse of the tracks you’ve been yearning for. Trouble is, I’m not sure if I really want to dig deep..or if it’ll be worth the effort, really. What if it’s a false alarm? Or worse, I’ve been looking in the wrong place to begin with. I decide to dig my heels in this time, and start to claw the sand away with my bare hands. There is a method to this, I’m told. But ofcourse, old habits die hard. As the last of the twilight air starts to fade away, we manage to hit bull’s eye twice. Two nests with over 120 eggs each is quite a statistic, I think. Even though not all might hatch and find the correct path that leads to the ocean. Many get dazzled and misled by the lure of winking city lights, I gather.
Slowly, beyond the protective make-shift shield of the hatchery, I hug my knees and watch as the light takes its time to creep in, soft hues of blue streaked with orange, pink and purple. But to get a clear view, you understand that you’ve got to get up and step outside that defensive brittle bamboo wall put up. It’s hard not to feel single-mindedly awestruck as the pale, rose-tinted orb begins its peek from beyond the horizon, then rapidly ripens its hues into something much more enduring, golden. To the point that it actually starts to emit a consistently reassuring warmth, that is meant to be soul-stirring and more meaningful. Meant to be.
A motorized fishing boat builds its momentum in the distance, with the now golden sun framing its backdrop. You toy with the idea of flagging it down and getting on it. Or of merely watching and allowing it to speed right past you. Again?
my indelible ink 