A Espera
(The Waiting)
A Espera
(The Waiting)
Hush hush don’t cry, I say.
But is that meant for her or me?
She only had one kiss goodbye,
and I had so many.
And yet I can’t make
them rise from my memory.
The one for her splits my heart
again and again and
makes pools of my tears.
My gaze fixes on the horizon
as if you might appear in the gap -
the space between sky and sea.
The sea that turned fury and swallowed you,
perhaps it will return you home.
Perhaps it washed you ashore
to somewhere not home.
Perhaps you are out there still,
sleeping on its soft bed.
When she is older,
I will tell her the stories
that you courted me with,
and I will raise you
from the murky depths of loss
so that she will know you.
We will ask the seal if she has seen you
and we will know from those hollow eyes
that she has not.
When she is older,
our lighthouse beam
will still flash
and pause.
The beats you know,
and I know might
guide you home.
When she is older,
I will watch your boat leave
and turn to the west.
I will watch for shadows in the clouds
and whisper a prayer.
At home, I will follow a line on a screen
until I return to this spot.
I will throw my gaze out
and watch your boat appear
and I will know you guided them home.
The narrator for the BBC documentary Saving Lives at Sea tells us, “as an island nation, we are drawn to the sea...” and I know that we really are. In the summer, hundreds of thousands of holidaymakers flock to the coast. The beach becomes a kingdom with territory marked by striped windbreaks and sandcastles. The sea a summer playground, where a flotilla of paddle boards, lilos and body boards bob around in the shallows.
However, the sea is also ungovernable, even to those who have made islands from their beach towels. Unlike fishing communities, many visitors do not understand the tides or the perils of the sea. The sea can turn; our seas and oceans are a vast, untameable wilderness. The thing that nourishes our world-weary souls also threatens us.
In fishing communities, people live with death and superstitions are worn like amulets for those that go out to sea. Every trip is a dice with death, and these rituals might see the mariner home safe.
In Cornwall, you should not eat a pasty on a boat, nor say the name of the creature with big ears and big teeth. Both of these are symbols of going underground, and no fisherman wants that. In Cadgwith, you turn first to starboard, the direction of the setting sun, so that you can see any witches in the sky. Women should not be on board a fishing boat, because their role was to keep the house and protect the family; there was no place for them on a boat. This wasn’t a pejorative anti-feminist point, it was a fact of life. Fishing communities understand momento mori.
In the summer of 2014, my husband and I sailed off the coast of Galicia, northern Spain, grateful for the markers that allowed us safe passage: Navigational charts, channel markers, cardinal markers and lighthouses. These kept us safe, we didn’t dice with a foul weather warning, but still we rode challenges. The sea is always unpredictable.
On shore leave, on the Costa del Morte, we visited the small village of Laxe where we encountered A Espera. In writing this project, she came back to me, and became my muse for 26’s Momento Mori.
Julia Webb-Harvey is a creative writing practitioner and doctoral candidate at Falmouth University, researching J M W Turner’s 1811 Tour in Cornwall. Julia’s work follows in the footsteps of Turner in Cornwall, travelling with the traces of him. Julia is a board member of the national writing organisation 26, and is a volunteer researcher with The Museum of Cornish Life. When not writing, Julia can be found on the water or walking the coast of Cornwall with her husband, Pete and her dog, Bessie.
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