I’ve got to tell you. The first time I caught a glimpse of her, I did a double take. I had been travelling up the coast all day, wind and rain lashing. Drawn closer to the shore, hunting down some much-needed sustenance, and BAM . . . the ocean rippled with her presence. She appeared out of nowhere, I swear. I have never felt or seen movement like that before. So svelte. She was a beauty. I had to sing out for all to hear what a divine creature had blessed my long and weary path.
She lay atop the ocean as if held up by divine providence. She was calm, yet focused on something I couldn’t see. I tried to get closer. A big wave came between us and she was gone. I searched . . . no sign of her in the water. Man, she was fast.
A fleeting connection
Then BOOM, like a heartbeat, the water called out her presence again. My heart fluttered as we made eye contact. Her face was different around the centre—brighter, yet with so many small whiskers. So enticing, so exotic.
I sang out to her. She listened, she gazed into my eyes, and then she looked back to the ocean. We danced there for a while. And then, just like last time, she was gone.
I never saw her again.
The gathering of storytellers
I tell you this story in preparation for the night when I will take my place on top of the rock. Tonight, we’ve come from far and wide to gather and listen to the old stories. The dark moon of the warming sea is upon us, perfection for tonight’s annual ceremony. Only the elders may speak; we young ones must listen and bide our time. A majestic crone begins her tale.
“It takes life to live,” she says, slowly and with care. “Tonight is the night. With our voices and hearts, we honour and celebrate our part in the circle of life and the great mystery. Bridging the great worlds above, below, and within with song and praise.”
Alignment with nature
When I look up, the sky seems alive with anticipation, watching, waiting along with us, and the ocean is mirroring the stars. Alignment.
“All of us are greater than the one,” the crone continued. “Let us weave our voices together.” Our first song is to honour the yearly silver shining feast. The hundred or so of us gathered there at the rock know this one well. The crisp night air now has a pulse.
Ancient tales under the stars
The song has finished and a senescent bull is making his way to the top of the rock. He breathes in and regards his audience. I feel him looking into my soul. He begins, “It was long ago . . . .” My friends and I have always enjoyed this tale. We lie back on the smooth rock close to the water’s edge to listen and gaze at the stars.
As the old bull finishes the legend, a single star shoots across the night sky like a silvery herring streaking through shallow water. An “Ahhh” murmurs up through the gathering and an impromptu song starts, as if pouring into us from the sky above: an anthem of light, splendour, creation, connection, and knowing.
The older ones lie basking in the glory of the light show while we youth splash and play, immersed in pure delight reflected above and below, awe and bliss blurring time and space as we reconnect to the infinite.
The truth revealed
The sobering end to my tale is that while I was courting my possible amour, the wind changed, and I caught a clear scent drifting across the choppy water. It couldn’t be?! In that moment, denial, embarrassment, clarity, humility, and fascination flushed my skin.
“She” was actually a land-walking HE. His hairy face was deceptively blubbery, but sleek, I had to admit. I had seen this kind of alluring, glistening, ebony, yielding skin but one time before, while frolicking under water with those awkward, lumpy-backed creatures that left a profusion of bubbles everywhere they went.
The ocean rider
But this creature, the object of my desire, made no bubbles, instead staying at the surface, popping up and down atop a flat board of some sort, using it to slide gracefully down the face of waves.
I am embarrassed to admit I hadn’t caught on earlier . . . but what could I do? I was born to be a storyteller like those before me, born to sing out the beauty and mystery to keep it alive. Sometimes my imagination gets the better of me.
Dreams of future storytelling
I may never tell this particular story, but one night, it will be my oratory that keeps others captivated, whiskers twitching, external ear flaps wide. I dream of the night I will take my place on top of the rock, and I keep on working on my craft. But for tonight and for a few more years, I must be content bathing in the splendour of the night sky, barking out the ancient song lines.
