Over the fence

White Picket Fence, Newcastle, Australia © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

She was coming home and the tattered picture stuck to the inside of her carry on pack was the only reality of ’home’ she possessed. Her memories were now more like third party recollections. The concept of home wasn't even tangible now. Her parents had died years ago and her siblings had long since escaped the home town just as she had (albeit well before them).

The best of her friends knew this before her. They hadn't given up on her - just given her time. The precious gift that only true friends have and only bequest to those they know best deserve it. Even when they're not sure why. The kind of gift that allows the giver moments of pride and satisfaction that don't wash over until well after it is given.

In her secret, dark moments, when she most missed the place she had wandered from, the fear of going back was stronger than any pull drawing her there. Now though, as the plane banked over the inner west of Sydney her face was up close to the window beside her. Fingers unconsciously tracing across the cold pexi-glass outlining the city below. 

It was moments past dawn and to the east patchy clouds scrambled across the horizon. The sun was bursting through right now - below the tilting right wing as the plane slowly turned through north then north east. It would land from the east and as it completed the turn she saw the harbour reflecting the low glaring light. To the west of the bridge a long shadow defined it - an arch of endeavour, connection and strength. She couldn't believe how sentimental she felt about coming home. It was unexpected. So not her. But there she was, home. Nearly.

She opened the flap of the pack that held her tattered picture. She had made it many years ago with her first camera (a then treasured Pentax). It had lots of bright Australian blue sky and in the bottom right hand corner of the frame was a white picket fence caught by winter’s afternoon sun.

Though the picture didn't show it, the fence guarded against the lure of a cliff and the long fall to rocks licked by the Pacific Ocean.

She remembered ‘seeing’ that picture before she raised the camera to her eye. It was when she knew she could translate things she saw and felt to a reality she could show to others. Even if they didn't always get it.

She chose to show a lot more sky and just a little fence. She could have easily moved closer and pointed the camera over the cliff’s edge and down to the rocks and waves.

Instead, she had looked at that blue, blue sky and, with the press of the shutter, made the photograph that helped her decide to leave and find other skies.

Nostalgia was shuddered away by the plane’s wheels almost soft bounce on the tarmac. How planes left air and kissed ground was one of those things she had long accepted she could never explain. She understood why planes crashed - just not how they landed.

It was very weird how she felt right now as the plane shuddered to taxi speed. So excited to be ’home’. The dread she had felt when she boarded this flight was gone. She was ready to climb back over from the sky side of that white picket fence.

Felt good.

Waiting

Today, like yesterday, Thomas was waiting. He was thousands of kilometres away from yesterday and the similarity of the difference struck him just here. Just now.

Waiting, The Cowrie Hole - Newcastle, Australia © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

Yesterdays wait had been in Darwin Airport and added yet another delayed flight to the hours (days?) of life lost to the whims, vagaries and sometimes pandemonium of departure boards. 

He had travelled enough that delays failed to antagonise him like they once had. This time though, his reaction had been so jaded that it almost jolted his 'here we go again' resignation. Almost.

Instead he made the call telling Bec he'd be home by dinnertime and not by lunch. So he couldn't pick Tim up from childcare. And Bec had an afternoon conference call. So she'd ask Sally to collect Tim when she picked up Ava. And Sally would say 'Poor Thomas - so unlucky with flights'. And Bec would think how patronising that sounded but say 'I s'pose so. Thanks Sally… I owe you.' And almost hear Sally say 'again..' as they hung up.

Thomas was a one man operation just two years into a five year plan so business class travel and executive lounges were not part of his expense budgets. Yet. And hadn't the cynic inside once wonder if delays were just an airline ploy to make the cost of lounge membership seem worthwhile? But this was now so he went looking for somewhere else to have a late breakfast. All the while the departure board pondered who went where and when. He'd been told two hours. Maybe.

Thomas travelled with two compact bags. One he dragged behind him by a handle - its small wheels scurrying quickly as if trying to keep up. The other was over his shoulder and carried his clothing - carefully packed to provide five days of clean variety and utility. Although two carry ons made for quick exits on arrival he ran the occasional risk of being stopped at the gate for having too much hand luggage.

If a smile didn't get him on board with both items then he would let the clothing be checked in. The equipment in his wheeled bag was too precious. Besides, he had a smile that got him past most frowns and used it in a way that seemed both innocent and familiar. Never cocky. For now, though, the need for that strategy was at least two hours away and Thomas was hungry.

Darwin Airport terminal is not large so it didn't take long to find a place to eat. Although it was crowded he found a table with another single traveller who didn't mind sharing. Some small talk then both settled into the zone that seasoned travellers can find in busy, noisy terminals.

Thomas ordered what would be a very flattened toasted focaccia with teabag green tea and opened his laptop for effect - not really wanting to work. He wanted to be home and away from this hubbub of tourists and raucous, drinking offshore rig workers...

And now, this morning, he was home - about to surf for the first time in 8 days. Yesterday had ended in bed with Bec. Before that a soft kiss on Tim's wispy blond hair as he slept with dreams he would never remember.

Just thirty minutes ago he slid slowly away from Bec. She was asleep but still mumbled something. 'Yes' he said 'I'll drive you to work'. Which was probably the answer to the question she may have asked.

There were still ninety minutes till then and he could hear the surf through the walls. Plenty of time for a couple of waves. Or more.

So here he was, thousands of kilometres from yesterday waiting for this set to play out. Waiting for the lull when it would be safe to jump. To skim across the white water for just a little. Then belly down and with arms digging deep. Paddling to beat the next waves so determined to wash him back onto the rocks.

No more waiting...