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| Learning to dive at Portnahapple - Rose Robertson |
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Atlantic breezes chill bare shoulders as we pass
a silent cottage where late sleepers dream the idle hours away.
Near huts, some boats drawn up, the day’s work done already;
frantic lobsters in tin buckets scrabble to escape their fate.
Above, a sky of watery blue, where scudding clouds spell out
a future that’s not certain.
Here’s our destination,
a sheltered cove beyond kelp forest;
here the pool dips deep and black between the limpet-covered rocks.
Father first to dive
bursts to surface, hair seal-sleek.
Fit and strong, he’s in his element. An element of fun.
While I, keen coward, shiver as he hollers ‘take the plunge’
(Do these goosebumps give away my trembling?
They call a baby gannet who can’t fly a ‘jumpling’)
Listen, trust and jump. Listen, trust and jump!
Shock and thrill collide as ice-cold water sucks me in.
Lungs smoke, head screams, heart shudders
frantic toes seek out a haven, furious legs thrash wild,
let me stay alive!
The puppy beating paddles in cold circles, yaps her protest -
teacher? conman! - but forgiven when the lesson’s learned
and laughter fills one longed-for moment.
At noon we rush to climb the dunes beyond the links.
We pelt across the beach, brace bodies for the slap of salty breakers.
In windblown spray we crest the waves, euphoric.
A memory so rare, mon père.
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