I went to Cornwall a couple of weeks ago on an improvised writing retreat. I know it sounds like an excuse to have wine and cheese (and perhaps it is) but if those are not the foundations of a good brainstorming session I don’t know what is. Diane and I have been working on something, we have been working on that something for a while now, because good things take time - and because we have jobs and lives…
I created an agenda of things to do, to watch, to write and to talk about. Nietzsche said that marriage is a long conversation and I suppose so is an artistic partnership. Bouncing ideas like a tennis ball, rallies that last for hours, a joke, an idea, a snarky comment - we could go on for days (and we did).
I am still learning how to ‘do beach’ here, how to go to the beach when is less than twenty five degrees outside, still getting used to the wind and the coldness of the sea. “What should I bring with me?” Was my morning routine - because I still have to adjust to the idea that I might need a bikini, a jumper and a flask of tea.
I grew up with sandy beaches, with Havaianas, and flimsy towels, the smell of sunblock, the taste of salt, swimming in the ocean for hours. We would have ice creams of uncanny flavours, burnt coconut and sweetcorn. I can still remember the smell of grass after a summer storm, swinging in a hammock with chlorine hair and rosy cheeks, listening to MPB on repeat.
One day I will show you that beach and you will know me better for it.
In Cornwall, I experience it differently - the beach, and everything around it. We had barbecues (plural!) and watched good and bad shows. I was introduced to Murder, She Wrote and had egg flavoured crisps (five stars, honestly). I started reading Real Life and wished that I could write like him. I looked after the dogs for a bit and developed some ideas that have been brewing inside me - sometimes you have to step outside to look in (I think I say that once a week…) I sent my family pictures of the dogs, those are the only ones my brother comments on.
On a cloudy day I went in the sea just before we left because I cannot stand regret. The waves were smoother than back home, the leftover foam doesn’t hit the same way as it did when I was a kid.
I learned how to swim into a wave from an early age, you have to jump in before it breaks. Anxiety runs in the family, my brother says. We catastrophize before the event has even taken place - it’s a defence mechanism, that’s the easiest way to explain.
That’s why I often avoided seas with swells I couldn’t beat, all I could do was hold my breath and wait for them to pass over me.
My brother says he is fearful and I can see that side in me. We learned when we were young how bad things can be.
“We are so privileged,” he tells me, and I agree, but he doesn’t remember a lot if it. We both left that beach earlier than we hoped, yanked from the sand we called home.
I wonder if my brother and I will swim together again and if it will feel like it felt then.
I don’t surf, Diane does, but I am also used to finding stability in chopping waters beneath me. I am in a different place than I was when I went down to Cornwall two years ago - a different place from when I was twelve or eighteen. I am not so scared of the waves anymore as the waters in my head have been much calmer since I learned how to accept the unstable nature in them.
The sea is different here and there, but it’s the same ocean in the end.