When I have my flippers on I am where I'm going, but with the monofin and waterwing I am where I am. This profundity was revealed to me when for the sake of maneuverability I went into the water flippered and wingless. And Dusty wasn't too thrilled either.
It's not really a change of address, but nowadays I am more often on the big parking place in Doolin than on the meadow in Fanore. As luck has it I'm a weathered bipolarite, or I wouldn't be able to soulwise bridge the difference between alone in winter and a public existence in the summer.
Like in full view of a pier full of waiting people with fin and wing through knee deep, dead slippery and stinking seaweed, washed up a week ago, then, after the spit-in-mask ritual, utmost carefully wading through also knee deep confetti infested pull- and push waves, across a bottom strewn with glitchy stumble stones until in middle deep water at last and then break the heel strap of the mono, so the whole movie goes into reverse.
But dry-walking is not without danger either. It began with a harmless skid, like you can act as if it was meant to. But then it happened what I have only been faced with in dreams: my mobile slid out of my pullover and rattling disappeared between some boulders. The first was of the type 'forget it'. The second was a may-be, but in between a smaller stone was jammed. Peeking and peering did not get the telephone in sight, which ruled out a keyhole operation. The jammer I hammered away with another stone. The green of number two is now on the inside arm of my pullover, but the mobile is back in my pocket, with the zipper up.
There's a cloak upon the water in the harbour and it's not diesel leaking from a ferry. It's the kind of grey that usually hangs in the air and promises rain, but this is of a desolate and empty ocean. Three days no Dusty. What have we done to deserve this. At every incoming boat necks stretch in hope. But it feels as if we have come to the end of the peer.
After all possible theories, ranging from a friendly friendly dolphin pod to a Deus with machina by Ute, Dusty turned up on the evening of the fourth day. Only to check out the pier for possible people, then returned into the vast again, leaving a trail of late disappointees. The next day she was symbolically present, surfacing at unpredictable places, then deigned me worthy of a few fly-bys, but when I swam out a bit she took that as a cue to disappear again.
Later, at the inside of Crab Island, I clicked two stones and she appeared, but shortly. Back at the Donkey I followed divers down, hoping they would attract Dusty, but one distant shadow was all I got.
That evening she made up and did overtime among a happy lot of swimmers under the click and running eyes of the pier crowd, gliding unhurriedly in perfect elegance through the clear.