A DAY AT THE BEACH

It was a fact. We were sick of lush meadows stuffed behind clumps of rhododendron and boring rows of hawthorn.  Six months away from home and we were hanging out for sun-parched paddocks and a sea that was clear blue, with sand that was warm under foot. Dad promised us a holiday at a proper beach. He kept his word, but even he couldn’t deliver good weather for it.

            Our holiday arrived in a squall of wind and rain, but Dan and I climbed into the car behind Mum and Dad and chattered all the way. We were sure the bruised clouds would disappear and those weather leprechauns would turn on summer for us. The purple ‘dendrons gave way to open road and eventually we glimpsed snatches of sea at the end of long fingers of rock pointing into the Atlantic.  To our cries of ‘Are we there yet?’ just to annoy Dad, the car swept round the last bend and there it was…the sea. But no sand. The ocean, driven by the force of an Atlantic gale, had overwhelmed all trace of sand and was pounding the low wall of the Strand. We stood beside the car, hunched against the wind like the spindly grasses bent horizontal at our feet.

            A distant tanker pitched and rolled, slowly being driven onto Bull Rock whose monstrous granite head seethed foam through ranks of black teeth. We watched as a tiny orange craft struggled to winch small figures to safety. A tide of black oil grew wider.

            We went back again the next day to join a small crowd on the cliff top. We stood in silence watching the still-furious sea. That ship died before our eyes; a grey hulk breaking up in Joyce’s snot-green sea; a bull elephant lowering itself into a muddy waterhole.

            It was a slow death. Dan and I were quickly bored.

            ‘D’you think there’ll be some sand tomorrow?’ we asked.

Mum explained about the oil slick.

            ‘It’s not fair! Stuck here all week and no beach?’

Dad gave us a look that said, that’s enough, and then he turned to Mum and cocked a thumb at the tanker.

            ‘Well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles,’ he said.  ‘Ship happens.’

We had no idea why Mum and Dad dissolved into helpless laughter.

            A year later Dad’s job took us back to Australia. Our very first treat was a day at Bondi.

© Rhonda Pooley, 2014                      A DAY AT THE BEACH

My book Cambodian Harvest is now listed on Koorong bookshop's website, and will be available for purchase 1st April 2014. The dream becoming reality!

                                        SLEEP, FAITH AND THE WRITING LIFE

OK, the silly season is over. It’s time to get back to work, or to writing. There are people who think it’s not the same thing. Whichever, it involves a few adjustments, which is why I tore out two newspaper items (annoying my husband in the process) that eventually provoked this post.

            The first one was headed, ‘Sleep loss a kick to the head’ which discussed a study that found going without sleep causes changes to the brain that resemble those that result from a blow to the head.  Indicators of brain damage from concussion, for example, include a rise in NSE and S-100B chemicals in the blood. The same rise in NSE and S-100B is shown in people who went without sleep for just one night.

            The second item concerned scientific research that indicates that people with religious belief have ‘thicker’ sections of brain. These thicknesses enhance a person’s resistance to depression.

            Both of these studies have implications for writers – well, this particular one, anyway. When I’m committed to disciplined writing, I’m inclined to both sleeplessness and bouts of low spirits. I’ve been known to sit up all night to write and that can cause me to be pretty tired and ‘low’ the next day - especially so, if I’m not happy with what I’ve written, in which case I could sink into a real ‘slough of despond’ (thank you, Mr Bunyan; no one has described it better!). But generally speaking, I no longer descend that far, because a faith-based outlook has been my preferred option for many years now. In those years before I had faith in Jesus Christ I often found it difficult to get out of bed, let alone muster confidence to put pen to paper.

            So, there I have it. To write efficiently I need to make sure I get a good night’s sleep, and then, so I don’t get depressed about how the work is progressing, I need to keep faith in the God who loved me enough to die for me. Simple, isn't it?

Pushing Out the Boat

       Yes, it's all about pushing out the boat at the moment...a little bit more every day. Yesterday, the pushing involved working on a brochure; today, its about setting up Blog and Face Book pages that relate directly to the writing process and the books I write, particularly Cambodian Harvest  which will be released in April this year.  In the journey it often seems I'm right out in the middle of the Pacific without a paddle, but I'm learning!

       What is your dream?  Are you willing to leave your familiar harbour to reach it?