|
|
This On the Beach is a bit on the gloomy side, and the latter part might be distressing. The later installments in the series are generally quite a bit more uplifting, ok? ;) (4/98)
Today was overcast and dark. I went to the beach late in the afternoon. The surf was up, so I walked to the North end where the rocks are, and sat watching the sea crashing in. It was one of the most sullen and oppressive days summer has tossed up for a long time. The sky was as dark and dirty as an old oil-rag and a solid mass of clouds hung inches above the horizon, seperated from the ocean by a slender margin of empty air.
Maybe it was the unusual conditions, but the place itself seemed... strange. Though I visit this spot several times a week, everything looked disconcertingly different, as if some tectonic shift had changed the shape of the coast overnight. I sat on the edge of a rock overlooking the water, just watching. I'd felt exhausted all day, physically and mentally fatigued. The clouds were like cotton wool dipped in brake fluid, and it felt as if the same stuff was inside my head. About all I was good for was watching.
There was a good-sized swell, and the waves were being thrown hard against the shore. Marbled green white and brown, they reared up and exploded against the rocks. I know there have always been many people who've been drawn by the sea when it's in this sort of mood, and I'm probably the fifty-millionth person to sit down and write something about it. I wonder why that is...
It seemed to me today that the ocean is the closest thing we can see to eternity in motion. It's vast and perpetual, but always in transition. I don't know exactly why, but I think it reminds us of ourselves. Tonight, watching it seeth, constantly making and re-making itself, it was impossible not to remember that it was the ocean that produced life on Earth - that tossed _us_ up on the beach - and we ourselves have internalised that environment: water and salt housed in a container of skin. Arthur Koestler talked about the self-transcending 'Oceanic feeling' of mystics and poets, and I'm getting beyond myself...
It was darkening early, and I felt a sense of oppressiveness - a very unusual feeling for me on a beach walk. I decided I'd leave, and was about to start on the long walk back down the beach. Something caught my eye, however.
A bluff presides over the rocks at the north end of the beach. On the headland is a huge, empty paddock, fenced off on the beachward face of the cliff. I glanced up and noticed something flapping on the fence. At first I thought it was a dead bird flapping in the wind, then I realised with a shudder that it was a living bird that had flown into the wire and got caught.
I climbed up. It was a mutton-bird. I'd seen a huge flock of them yesterday, skimming the ocean heading South. They nest in burrows close to the ocean, and they're the subject of a particularly repugnant industry which I won't discuss here.
The bird was badly caught on the fence. The barbed wire had stuck in the joint of the wing, and looked like it had gone right into the bone. The bird flapped and screamed at me when I came near. I tried to dislodge the wing but couldn't. Eventualy I could see that the tendons in the wing were ripped, and bones had been broken because it was hanging with all its weight from the wing, tossing and flapping. It was very upsetting. It was really a very beautiful bird, and when I was handling it stopped struggling, as if it knew I wanted to help it. I couldn't though. I couldn't free it; it was obvious the wing was badly damaged - the bird wouldn't fly again even if I got it off. And it was getting dark. I tried not to hurt it any more but finally the wing tore as I was trying to get it off the fence. I got it off though. It was sitting on the ground at the top of the cliff, it's wing horribly broken in the middle. I wondered for a minute if it might be saveable. I decided no. How would I know anyway, but it seemed to me like this bird was beyond saving, and I knew I was going to have to kill it.
I came to save it and now I was going to have to end its life to stop its suffering. I wasn't really ready for this, but I decided to just go ahead and deal with my emotions later. Apart from anything else it was nearly dark, and I was standing at the top of a cliff.
I went across the paddock and found a large stone. I came back and stood behind the bird. I knew it would die instantly, and I _was_ going to do it. I hesitated for an instant 'though, just gathering my resolve, and suddenly, unexpectedly, the bird managed to scuttle away and disappear down a hole. Into a burrow.
I dropped the stone, and cursed myself. Now I had no choice, I had to leave it to suffer. Feeling churned up, I went down to the beach and walked back to the car in the near darkness.
I know it was my humaness that made me try to save the bird, and in the end it was humaness that made me hesitate for a moment before killing it. I know that right now it's suffering, dying slowly because I couldn't just do what had to be done without thinking about it.
I feel stupid; I feel guilty; I know I haven't done the bird any favours. It might even be suffering more because of me. Another animal would have ignored it or eaten it. Eating it would have been kinder. And as a final irony, maybe I could have been some use if I'd been prepare to shove my arm down that burrow and pull it out and bash it against a rock.
Text 1997, Images 1998, Tim Gadd
