AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Three
Connie
Early Sunday morningI head to our private beach with my rucksack flung over my back, my iPod filled with my favourite ballads, and Grandma Silva’s voice ringing in my ears.
“I’ll have dinner ready for 6pm. Don’t make me come fetch you, young lady. You know I hate stepping onto that beach.”
That was almost three hours ago, and I’ve already eaten my way through my lunch even though it’s only eleven am. I like food. In fact, that’s probably why my curves have become curvier of late. Only my love of swimming prevents me from being heavier than I would probably be given the amount of food I devour on a daily basis.
Still, in my opinion, there’s nothing wrong with having a healthy appetite. I’m not into being skinny and lithe. That’s perfectly okay, I could care less about anyone’s weight, but for me, womanly is the look I’m aiming for. Besides, I get to eat what I want without having to feel guilty about it. Food should be enjoyed, not fussed over.
It’s a win-win in my opinion.
Pushing up from my spot on the sand, I grab my notebook and pen and wander over to the formation of rocks situated to the left of the beach. As a little girl I would spend my summer days filling my bucket with seawater and capturing the small see-through fish in my net so that I could stare at their tiny little beating hearts as they swum around the bottom of my bucket.
Some days I wish I was still that little girl whose parents were alive. Everything was so much simpler back then. There wasn’t any fear or worry, just wonderment.
Wonderment… It’s such a pretty word.A state of awed admiration and respect, according to the English dictionary.
It’s another word to add to the many that fill my numerous notebooks.
Words that form lyrics, that eventually turn into songs.
Sometimes the words come spilling out of me. Other times the notes are what I hear first, forming in my head as though they’ve been put there by magic. There’s a sense of wonderment when I write a new song, and that keeps the fears I have at bay. Death and sadness are just a memory when I’m writing in my notebook or strumming my guitar. The joy I feel when doing so, that’s how I choose to remember my parents. I feel closer to them when I play the guitar and sing.
Stepping up onto the warm stone heated up by the sun, I take a seat on a flat piece of rock that dips in the middle to form a deep rockpool, my sand-covered feet sliding into the water. Placing my notebook down beside me, I lean over and cup some water into my hands dribbling it over the bare skin of my legs and watch those same see-through fish swim about my ankles. They’re like little flashes of light that weave through the seaweed, disturbed by my wiggling toes. For a moment I admire my pretty pink toenails and the way they make my tan seem darker. My toes, those tiny fish, this cove, the sun on my skin and sand in my hair, all make me happy.
Happy to be alive.
Leaning back on my hands, I tip my head back, allowing my sunhat to fall off my head as I close my eyes against the bright sun. My skin feels tight from the sand and saltwater spray, my lips a little dry, but despite that a wide smile forms on my face.
“There is no better feeling than the sun on your skin and sand in your hair,”my mum used to say, and she wasn’t wrong.
This right here, is what peace feels like.
Happiness.
Humming quietly to myself, I listen to Hozier and let my mind drift for a while. I think of my best friends and what they must be getting up to. Lots of partying in clubs and dancing until early in the morning, I suspect.
The three of them have this wild streak that scares me sometimes. They’re not afraid of anything. The world is their oyster and this island is a ball and chain. Sometimes I wonder how we’re even friends. Though, of course, sharing a class with only a few children means that none of us had much choice in the matter. It was each other or no one.
As I move my feet in the water my thoughts stray to my new job and whether I’ll actually pluck up the courage to sing in front of a crowd like Lola wants me to do. I mean, strumming my guitar and writing lyrics during my breaks is one thing but singing for an audience is something else altogether, especially doing it sober. These songs I write are so personal, a close-up view right into my soul, if you like. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to share them with anyone other than my Grandma. She’s the only person I’ve sung my own songs to. My friends have heard me sing, but never the lyrics I’ve penned.
They’re sacred.
Grabbing my wide-brimmed straw hat and shoving it back on my head, I pick up my pen and notepad and start to scribble down some new lyrics, my swirly handwriting moving across the blank page. Pretty soon I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing that the next hour or so passes by in a heartbeat.
I’m not sure what eventually makes me look up.
Maybe it’s the sudden ache in my fingers from holding my pen so tightly. Maybe it’s the piercing caw of a seagull circling overhead, maybe it’s the way my skin begins to prickle or maybe it’s the sudden flash of something out at sea, caught in my peripheral vision.
“What the hell…?” I mumble seeing two things at once. A schooner floating in the distance and someone swimming towards the beach.
I stand, forgetting that my notebook is in my lap. It falls into the rockpool, the words on the page blurring as it sinks to the bottom, forgotten in the moment.
All I can do is watch in surprise, then admiration and awe as a man with strong shoulders and powerful arms cuts through the water towards me. When he’s closer to the shore, I hold my breath as he stands upright, water running in rivulets over his skin as he swipes his dark hair back off his forehead to reveal a face that is terrifyingly beautiful.
He’s a god. A living, breathing, Poseidon.
