BELIEVE IN MERMAIDS - (Selected by GETTY IMAGES)
.
I've wrestled with my conscience and declared the bout a draw. I've examined each and every avenue of perception and contemplation with time on my side and a willingness to seek out some pearl of wisdom that I might take with me to the grave. But all this pathetic brain of mine can muster is an awe for Mother nature's brilliance and bounty as those tidal surges have me ever more drenched and clinging onto my last breath, and the realisation that perhaps this is not such a bad day to die.
The thin tubular aluminium legs of my portable fishing chair flex and move under the weight of the water, sinking ever deeper into the soft velvety sand with each successive wave as I flinch under the freezing cold pain of the water now making unwarranted advances upon my ill prepared flesh. I want to cry but won't allow myself such wasteful and unproductive indulgence as I struggle to break free my limbs from the layers of tape that bind me callously to the skimpy chair, itself firmly affixed to the far end of the wooden groyne that for decades many has occupied these sea defences. Despite my best intentions I must concede the simple fact that a mortal of the merest form I am, no God nor king of legend past and bold with powers to halt the progress of the devilish sea. All the same, old Canute's earnest belief in his abilities wouldn't come a miss right now.
The morning breeze stiffens and billows in, buffeting my face along with salty sea spray and foam that floats from the shoreline, stinging my eyes and scalding my parched lips as my brain attempts to calculate and recalibrate a world of mayhem and possibility. And like a mirage in a barren desert land, from time to time there I am, believing that I might actually find salvation amidst the blissful chaos. Where I think there is a sign of movement between tethered hands and unforgiving tape, reality slaps me down as I fail once more to make any ground, the water ever faster, ever deeper as it pools around my submerged feet which are anchored beneath the sand and buried to a point several inches above my ankles, sending an icy chill up and down my spine. I know that he is watching me from a short distance away, I can feel his cold eyes burning into the back of my neck, his contemptuous stare though he'll naturally understand if I don't turn around and give him the satisfaction of the credit he craves. All the same, I wish I could turn and flash him a toothy smile as an 'up yours, pal' salvo across his decks. A three sixty revolving neck like a scene from 'The Exorcist' would be a neat trick right now.
My right eye is partially closed, the swelling smarting like a son of a bitch and congealed blood now dry and crusty around my face where he broke the skin under the impact with fists and wedding ring. Ah yes, that ring. How apt and intrinsically appropriate. Worn out of some sense of dominance and pride I would guess, a mark of allegiance, of ownership in his eyes, to complete my final humiliation and stamp his angry condemnation of my carnal actions and the consequences that have arisen from them. Only a fool such as I could choose to make an enemy of a violent husband with psychopathic tendencies, and a passion for the intricate details of violence drawn from years of watching American gangster movies. Why couldn't he have been a 'philatelist, then the worst fate that might have befallen me was in being licked to death! Or a lepidopterist.... hmm on second thoughts he'd probably have dried me to a husk and pinned me in a glass cabinet with a giant pin through my chest!
This stretch of coastline lies secluded and unmolested by tourist eyes, towards the outer reaches of the angry shoreline, where ageing wooden groynes pepper the beach and stand guard over my demise like legions of soldiers lined up for the fight. Positioned by the first breaker with three more behind me closer to the sea wall, my eyes survey the degradation and algae adorning the wooden form which tells me that soon I shall taste the salt water and breathe no longer. Everything so meticulously planned, he chose the location so well as into his violent trap I so foolishly wandered. The story of my life one could say, the nearly man, neither Prince nor King of the facets of my life, a head filled with romantic notions and a heart worn so carelessly on my soaking wet sleeves. Romance, you've gotta love it. Look where it got me this time. The sea water rises steadily, my waste now submerged and all attempts to free the legs of the chair thwarted by his use of tent pegs bent over and pinned into the core of the sand. He thought of everything, the cold and calculating bastard! My heart beat races like a charging stallion with every new pulsing surge of water, and perhaps rather curiously, I find myself with the urge to laugh out loud, uncontrollably at the top of my lungs. Am I facing madness as I stare death in the eye? I guess I never got around to reading the book on my bedroom cabinet, 'Etiquette when facing death at the hands of a mad thing'.
My nose is broken, I'm almost certain of the fact as I can hear the fragments moving rather unsettlingly against each other as I breath through the constricted passageway of my blood filled nostrils, mouth agape as I suck in great gulps of air and breath hard as the liquid reaches my chest. It's a suitably impressive show that Mother nature puts on just for me in my final hour, with the golden sand slowly disappearing beneath the advancing crests of the foamy waves, and seagulls overhead seeming to stare down and mock my sad plight as they hover motionless in the breeze above me. Unlike those ancient and fascinating Groynes, for this mere mortal, just one early morning tide is all that is needed to erase me, snuff me out from the existence enjoyed, the future I had planned. I feel almost cheated somehow, relishing the prospect of going out in style at the very least, and yet here I am giving up the fight without so much as a whimper.
Back at the car, Susan's carcass will be rapidly cooling by now. He'll have a hell of a job to hide all evidence of her murder, doesn't he realize that scrubbing the black velvet boot carpet of all traces of blood and bodily fluids will not fool the forensic squad once they get their filthy paws on the Mercedes? I picked that up from reruns of CSI shows on various digital channels over the years. I can still see her lying there as he opened the boot and forced me to survey the extent of the damage that I had caused. Hands taped and blood pouring from my fresh wounds, the baseball bat indentations throbbing on my battered bones as I looked into her still open, though curiously vacant eyes. I guess it's only fair that we both suffered the same fate this day for our unrequited love, the illicit and lurid legacy of our torrid affair, and yet a part of me, a selfish part that lurks deep in the very recesses of my worthless heart, somehow wishes that Susan were still alive to give me a perspective, a reason to make a stand and fight back like a man with all my strength and might. As it is, I am broken, nothing left to care for, the reason for my existence snuffed out before me. I am beaten. I guess there is always Mr Timmins, but no doubt once he realizes that I have not shown up for his on the dot five thirty dinner spread, he'll do what all cats do and find some other sucker to fall for his fluffalicious charms.
A wave pounds me, rushing my nostrils as salt water powers past the restricted passageways, pain searing through my brain as I try to eject the water from my mouth in rapid spits, head flailing with the limited movement my neck has. It's actually quite a buzz, the cold water smacking me in the face, the realization that this is it, I'm facing the reaper any second. I'd like to make a final speech and announce to the world that I enjoyed my short life and lived it to the full, but the world doesn't care much it seems to me, as local residents still fester in the pits of their love nests, leaving just a handful of curious sea gulls to ride the breeze around me. It could have been so perfect, so idyllic, as we two forbidden lovers luxuriated in the moment of our freedom, heading off into the metaphoric sunset on white horses to begin a new life away from that monster. I should have been a man, had some backbone, thought this moment through and offered up at least a valiant defence. But here I sit, bound to a collapsible fishing chair with a broken nose and shattered dreams, the woman I love lying dead just metres from me and his victory complete and final.
The final wave signals her intent from afar, gathering momentum and lifting her skirts as she heads like a Queen on her trusty many hands high white steed with sword held aloft and steel visor firmly down. This is it I guess, as I face my demise, mouth open and screaming as defiantly as my throat will muster, the slit gushing rich ruby red lifeblood from the precise slashing that his serrated diving knife so cordially obliged me with. The water rushes over me and I can hear my scream beneath the wave as I struggle for breath and wait for the water to recede enough for one last gulp of air. But sometimes hopes and dreams are scattered to the winds as is the case right here and now. As my breath falters and water rushes into every orifice, I sense the end is here. Perhaps soon I will be reunited with my love in a better place. Underwater, eyes open, I ponder the existence of Mermaids from ancient legend and live in hope that one will come and rescue me at her leisure.
Ever the optimist.
Believe in mermaids? Right here, right now, never moreso.....
.
Rewritten from a piece penned on December 31st 2010
.
.
.
.
***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 7th 2015
CREATIVE RF gty.im/ MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**
This photograph became my 634th frame to be selected for inclusion and sale in the Getty Images 'Moment' collection and I am very grateful to them for such a wonderful opportunity.
.
.
Photograph taken at sunrise on the beach at Camber Sands in East Sussex, England.
Nikon D700 34mm 1/50s f/3.2 iso200 -0.3step EV
Nikkor AF-S 24-70mm f/2.8G ED IF. UV filter. Manfrotto 055XPro Carbon fibre & Manfrotto 327 RC2 pistol grip. Shutter release and mirror up.
BELIEVE IN MERMAIDS - (Selected by GETTY IMAGES)
.
I've wrestled with my conscience and declared the bout a draw. I've examined each and every avenue of perception and contemplation with time on my side and a willingness to seek out some pearl of wisdom that I might take with me to the grave. But all this pathetic brain of mine can muster is an awe for Mother nature's brilliance and bounty as those tidal surges have me ever more drenched and clinging onto my last breath, and the realisation that perhaps this is not such a bad day to die.
The thin tubular aluminium legs of my portable fishing chair flex and move under the weight of the water, sinking ever deeper into the soft velvety sand with each successive wave as I flinch under the freezing cold pain of the water now making unwarranted advances upon my ill prepared flesh. I want to cry but won't allow myself such wasteful and unproductive indulgence as I struggle to break free my limbs from the layers of tape that bind me callously to the skimpy chair, itself firmly affixed to the far end of the wooden groyne that for decades many has occupied these sea defences. Despite my best intentions I must concede the simple fact that a mortal of the merest form I am, no God nor king of legend past and bold with powers to halt the progress of the devilish sea. All the same, old Canute's earnest belief in his abilities wouldn't come a miss right now.
The morning breeze stiffens and billows in, buffeting my face along with salty sea spray and foam that floats from the shoreline, stinging my eyes and scalding my parched lips as my brain attempts to calculate and recalibrate a world of mayhem and possibility. And like a mirage in a barren desert land, from time to time there I am, believing that I might actually find salvation amidst the blissful chaos. Where I think there is a sign of movement between tethered hands and unforgiving tape, reality slaps me down as I fail once more to make any ground, the water ever faster, ever deeper as it pools around my submerged feet which are anchored beneath the sand and buried to a point several inches above my ankles, sending an icy chill up and down my spine. I know that he is watching me from a short distance away, I can feel his cold eyes burning into the back of my neck, his contemptuous stare though he'll naturally understand if I don't turn around and give him the satisfaction of the credit he craves. All the same, I wish I could turn and flash him a toothy smile as an 'up yours, pal' salvo across his decks. A three sixty revolving neck like a scene from 'The Exorcist' would be a neat trick right now.
My right eye is partially closed, the swelling smarting like a son of a bitch and congealed blood now dry and crusty around my face where he broke the skin under the impact with fists and wedding ring. Ah yes, that ring. How apt and intrinsically appropriate. Worn out of some sense of dominance and pride I would guess, a mark of allegiance, of ownership in his eyes, to complete my final humiliation and stamp his angry condemnation of my carnal actions and the consequences that have arisen from them. Only a fool such as I could choose to make an enemy of a violent husband with psychopathic tendencies, and a passion for the intricate details of violence drawn from years of watching American gangster movies. Why couldn't he have been a 'philatelist, then the worst fate that might have befallen me was in being licked to death! Or a lepidopterist.... hmm on second thoughts he'd probably have dried me to a husk and pinned me in a glass cabinet with a giant pin through my chest!
This stretch of coastline lies secluded and unmolested by tourist eyes, towards the outer reaches of the angry shoreline, where ageing wooden groynes pepper the beach and stand guard over my demise like legions of soldiers lined up for the fight. Positioned by the first breaker with three more behind me closer to the sea wall, my eyes survey the degradation and algae adorning the wooden form which tells me that soon I shall taste the salt water and breathe no longer. Everything so meticulously planned, he chose the location so well as into his violent trap I so foolishly wandered. The story of my life one could say, the nearly man, neither Prince nor King of the facets of my life, a head filled with romantic notions and a heart worn so carelessly on my soaking wet sleeves. Romance, you've gotta love it. Look where it got me this time. The sea water rises steadily, my waste now submerged and all attempts to free the legs of the chair thwarted by his use of tent pegs bent over and pinned into the core of the sand. He thought of everything, the cold and calculating bastard! My heart beat races like a charging stallion with every new pulsing surge of water, and perhaps rather curiously, I find myself with the urge to laugh out loud, uncontrollably at the top of my lungs. Am I facing madness as I stare death in the eye? I guess I never got around to reading the book on my bedroom cabinet, 'Etiquette when facing death at the hands of a mad thing'.
My nose is broken, I'm almost certain of the fact as I can hear the fragments moving rather unsettlingly against each other as I breath through the constricted passageway of my blood filled nostrils, mouth agape as I suck in great gulps of air and breath hard as the liquid reaches my chest. It's a suitably impressive show that Mother nature puts on just for me in my final hour, with the golden sand slowly disappearing beneath the advancing crests of the foamy waves, and seagulls overhead seeming to stare down and mock my sad plight as they hover motionless in the breeze above me. Unlike those ancient and fascinating Groynes, for this mere mortal, just one early morning tide is all that is needed to erase me, snuff me out from the existence enjoyed, the future I had planned. I feel almost cheated somehow, relishing the prospect of going out in style at the very least, and yet here I am giving up the fight without so much as a whimper.
Back at the car, Susan's carcass will be rapidly cooling by now. He'll have a hell of a job to hide all evidence of her murder, doesn't he realize that scrubbing the black velvet boot carpet of all traces of blood and bodily fluids will not fool the forensic squad once they get their filthy paws on the Mercedes? I picked that up from reruns of CSI shows on various digital channels over the years. I can still see her lying there as he opened the boot and forced me to survey the extent of the damage that I had caused. Hands taped and blood pouring from my fresh wounds, the baseball bat indentations throbbing on my battered bones as I looked into her still open, though curiously vacant eyes. I guess it's only fair that we both suffered the same fate this day for our unrequited love, the illicit and lurid legacy of our torrid affair, and yet a part of me, a selfish part that lurks deep in the very recesses of my worthless heart, somehow wishes that Susan were still alive to give me a perspective, a reason to make a stand and fight back like a man with all my strength and might. As it is, I am broken, nothing left to care for, the reason for my existence snuffed out before me. I am beaten. I guess there is always Mr Timmins, but no doubt once he realizes that I have not shown up for his on the dot five thirty dinner spread, he'll do what all cats do and find some other sucker to fall for his fluffalicious charms.
A wave pounds me, rushing my nostrils as salt water powers past the restricted passageways, pain searing through my brain as I try to eject the water from my mouth in rapid spits, head flailing with the limited movement my neck has. It's actually quite a buzz, the cold water smacking me in the face, the realization that this is it, I'm facing the reaper any second. I'd like to make a final speech and announce to the world that I enjoyed my short life and lived it to the full, but the world doesn't care much it seems to me, as local residents still fester in the pits of their love nests, leaving just a handful of curious sea gulls to ride the breeze around me. It could have been so perfect, so idyllic, as we two forbidden lovers luxuriated in the moment of our freedom, heading off into the metaphoric sunset on white horses to begin a new life away from that monster. I should have been a man, had some backbone, thought this moment through and offered up at least a valiant defence. But here I sit, bound to a collapsible fishing chair with a broken nose and shattered dreams, the woman I love lying dead just metres from me and his victory complete and final.
The final wave signals her intent from afar, gathering momentum and lifting her skirts as she heads like a Queen on her trusty many hands high white steed with sword held aloft and steel visor firmly down. This is it I guess, as I face my demise, mouth open and screaming as defiantly as my throat will muster, the slit gushing rich ruby red lifeblood from the precise slashing that his serrated diving knife so cordially obliged me with. The water rushes over me and I can hear my scream beneath the wave as I struggle for breath and wait for the water to recede enough for one last gulp of air. But sometimes hopes and dreams are scattered to the winds as is the case right here and now. As my breath falters and water rushes into every orifice, I sense the end is here. Perhaps soon I will be reunited with my love in a better place. Underwater, eyes open, I ponder the existence of Mermaids from ancient legend and live in hope that one will come and rescue me at her leisure.
Ever the optimist.
Believe in mermaids? Right here, right now, never moreso.....
.
Rewritten from a piece penned on December 31st 2010
.
.
.
.
***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 7th 2015
CREATIVE RF gty.im/ MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**
This photograph became my 634th frame to be selected for inclusion and sale in the Getty Images 'Moment' collection and I am very grateful to them for such a wonderful opportunity.
.
.
Photograph taken at sunrise on the beach at Camber Sands in East Sussex, England.
Nikon D700 34mm 1/50s f/3.2 iso200 -0.3step EV
Nikkor AF-S 24-70mm f/2.8G ED IF. UV filter. Manfrotto 055XPro Carbon fibre & Manfrotto 327 RC2 pistol grip. Shutter release and mirror up.