The breath

The beach. Image ©Matthew Smeal

It was one breath. Just a single, simple breath, but it told me everything. It was a little after midday; three nights I had been here, three, but rain and cold and wind had confined me to my apartment.

But the sun shone this morning. And the temperature rose with the waking hours, climbing to the high teens, which isn’t much in summer but delightful for today. It soon began to feel like an early autumn day, or a late spring one—anything but the mid-winter day it was.

I was on the beach by 11:30, one page of writing complete—a semi-serious task I had set myself to foster discipline and page-count for a new story I am writing—and anticipating a few hours of apricity. I tried in vain yesterday, seeking gaps in the clouds, but the cold had me off the beach within the hour.

The breath came unexpectedly. A short breath caught in my throat and I found myself breathing deeper, longer.

I am at a favourite beach—one I visit often—and one which has come to represent the freedom and peace and quiet I crave. It’s not a surfing beach, and while my boards are with me on this trip, they remain at my accommodation. This is a beach for quiet reflection; for thinking and writing.

The breath came unexpectedly. A short breath caught in my throat and I found myself breathing deeper, longer. My chest swelled, my shoulders lifted. A slight pain told me I hadn’t breathed this deeply for some time. I held the breath in, savouring it, and exhaled. I felt a slight dizziness and the whole episode made me wonder.

Here, on this beach, in a familiar place, a safe place, a place of freedom, my body, my mind, my soul, knew it could breathe. If the weather forecast is right, I will have two more days here; two more days to breathe.

I held the breath in, savouring it, and exhaled. I felt a slight dizziness and the whole episode made me wonder.

An eagle soars high above. I hadn’t seen it before but the sounds of fighter jets from the RAAF base to the south made me look up. It was funny to hear sounds of fighter jets, look up and see an eagle. I often see both here: sea eagles and jets. The low frequency rumble from the jets penetrate the entire soundscape, making it hard to pinpoint direction; and their speed, altitude, and agility make them hard to spot in an endless sky. One can only hope for a glint of sunlight reflecting off a tilting wing or fuselage. But once seen, they can be locked onto and followed—at least for a time.

Sea eagles, of course, make no sound. They lie cushioned on the air, their wings drawing lift from the passing currents. They are there for the looking…sometimes.

There are dolphins now too. Like the sea eagles, they are often here; it’s just a matter of waiting and looking. They are small, young and, despite a frivolous leap from one, have slid by unnoticed.

Cormorants, terns and seagulls are here too… and the beach is better for their presence.

They are a small pod—six or seven—and spread out. They regroup and head towards the point. Perhaps I will see them tomorrow. Like the jets, a glint of sunlight off their grey fuselage is a usual giveaway if their dorsal fin and rolling backs haven’t been spotted already.

Cormorants, terns and seagulls are here too and we mustn’t forget them. They dive and circle, seeking their fish, their sustenance, and the beach is better for their presence.

It is approaching mid-afternoon yet the temperature remains pleasant. I will lie down now and try to sleep—breathing deeply.