Artwork by Suzanne Bajor
The mooring creaks its aggravation. Groaning, its echo’s a strain on the piling as it rebels against the tide.
Illusion emerges:
The rope uncoils like a viper rising from its basket and ricochet’s skywards. Swirling uncontrollably, it spins off its crutch; we duck to avoid the strike of a perilous whip.
Fear develops:
The gangway releases – a clatter resonates as it hits the floor. With scarves around faces like cartoon robbers, we advance for a place of shelter. Wind lashes, spray blows, the footway heaves and sways with the pull of the swell.
Terror progresses:
Gangway slips from the side – crashing into the sea. We are scraps scraped off a chopping board, tumbling into the murky river that lurks in the unending black beneath.
Reality returns:
Lurching away from the landing stage the surf throws up a stench of engine oil to invading our lungs. With a gasp of sea air that stifles the throat, we make it safely on board. Gazing back at the skyline; angst wanes.
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