A dog and his pastry.
I had to face this memory.
The ocean wave pulled me under, my body becoming a rag doll in the grasp of Mother Nature. I was upside down in the black. Slamming against the gritty concrete wall, my back was immediately scratched and bruised, but the pain was welcome.
As the waves subsided and calm briefly returned to the pool, the numbness in my body began to fade. The cold, hard possibility of being swept out to sea pulled me back into reality. Having had a brief but daring encounter with a concrete cheese grater, there was electricity in my veins. Salt stinging in my wounds.
I just needed to feel something.
Pulling my head above water, I realised there was no one around who saw it happen. No one to rely on but myself, and equally no one to share the adrenaline with. My heart rate skyrocketed in the silence.
Travelling solo was not really a door I wanted to open, but I had no other choice.
I was back in the tropical paradise of Madeira for the second time that year. This time though, I was alone.
A slippery slope.
Piscinas Naturais do Seixal, located on the north side of the island, was my pilgrimage for the day. A natural pool cut into the side of the cliff face, framed by ancient volcanic basalt, largely untouched aside from a few concrete stairs and a mezzanine bar.
A beautiful spot, filled with horrible memories. I loved it, but my body never wanted to see it again. Heartbreak started here and it's where I'd like to have left it.
Turning the key, my Fiat Panda's engine clunked into an elderly resting state. I was frozen solid in my seat. My head throbbing at even the thought of opening the door.
I'd chosen to come back here to force myself to write and work through the pain. To unwind the damage and see what I could learn from my mistakes. Learning to be ok with being by myself, and replace the dark memories.
It was about as close to therapy as I could stomach.
With one sandal down on the sidewalk, a small box immediately caught my attention. Clean white card was disrupted by a dotted line of black ants marching inside. A whole pastry was carelessly dropped and forgotten. I know you're supposed to leave an hour between eating and swimming, but this seemed extreme.
Floor pastry would have been a nice break from my overthinking though, if it wasn't covered in insects. I (reluctantly) moved on to my original mission.
The water was refreshingly cold. Wading over green algae covered rocks, I sunk into the deeper ends of the pool. Hiding everything up to my nose in the shadow of the overhanging formations.
Crabs had gathered on the sea wall just out of reach. Rich red and muted speckled orange were scattered around the rocks. Their eyes fixated on me like magnets. Was I lunch, or the predator they wanted to keep at claw's length?
This fascination was short-lived though, as every inch of my body began to be repelled by the location.
Involuntary twitching, the loss of sensation in my hands and feet (not ideal when climbing rough rockfaces), and an increasingly heavy weight in my chest made treading water suffocating. Each crashing wave coincided with a slightly shorter breath as the sorrow replayed in my mind.
"It's slippery, no?" A pot-bellied Polish dad chuckled in my direction as I tried to find my footing on the way out. The sarcastic response I started to summon was quickly cut off with a mouthful of seawater.
My instincts for ice walking in the North did not seem to be transferable to the slippery green algae of Madeira.
I sat writing at a plastic table whilst drying off, staring into the small crowd of tourists and locals that had started to bumble their way down to the water.
Subtle shards of glass flew in my direction as I buried my head in the page. Each piece of accidental eye contact was met with confusion and scepticism, not curiosity. My camera set up on a tripod only seemed to draw more undesirable attention.
Maybe this was just the Madeiran response to single pasty English men at their local seaside pool during the low season. Who knows.
I didn't give myself time to dissect the cultural faux pas before diving back into the water though.
Repeating the same wash and dry cycle until my heart was thoroughly beaten from reliving the painful events of the last visit. Every frustrated word and change in body language arriving in my head frame by excruciating frame.
My soda was empty, pages of my journal were filling rapidly with panicked handwriting, and the counter on my film camera was approaching the fatal 36.
Yet, I found myself spiralling further. Nothing had been achieved.
Clouds were forming over the pool, turning the tranquil waterpark into an overcast ice bath. It was time to leave.
Looking down on the water from the near-vertical stairway, I felt some relief. Returning to the battlefield was the hardest part after all, even if very little else had been resolved.
Raising my camera, praying the shutter speed was fast enough to cancel out my shaking hands, a cat wandered into frame at the top of the hill. She was sassy, as all Calico cats are, waving her tail and clearly trying to pull me towards a new side quest.
Of course, I followed.
Returning to the scene of the crime.
The spot where the pastry was came back into view, her tiny paws pointing directly towards it. I was desperate to see how the ants had fared dismantling the treat over the couple of hours I spent trauma dumping into my journal. But to my surprise, the pastry was missing, and in the moment I'd looked away, so was my new friend.
During my quick spin, a small dog had appeared from off-screen.
Caramel brown, with a bushy curled tail, and a mischievous look on his face, he lorded over the pastry. Thrown from its glossy container onto the broken white mosaic floor, he licked his chops.
One eye on me, one eye on the golden pastry.
We both sank closer to the ground, his front paws lowered as I squat down. Moving my camera up to my face. He was fixated on me as I stood guard over his exit. Knowing full well he'd found the greatest treasure known to dog kind, we stood in stalemate.
I've always instinctively known how to respond to dogs. How to play with them, move around them, speak to them. My namesake directly translating to, "Master of Hounds" probably having something to do with it.
My camera moved silently. I was a hunter slowly pulling my rifle up to my eye, ready to pull the trigger. Trailing my focus on the corner of his ear. Time slowed to a grinding halt, my quads couldn't stop shaking, and each squeak of my soaked sandals on the shiny tiles pierced like a siren in my ears. The shutter was cocked and ready to shoot.
A single meow warbled out from behind the bush.
Calico had snuck around the back, pinning the dog between us. Her head sticking around the leaves in pure inquisitive envy.
That was it, that was the moment.
Locking the frame into chemicals forever, the puppy triumphantly trotting away up the road, I bolted back to my Fiat Panda. Welding myself into my seat to contain the excitement.
I leant back, soaking in the absurdity of it all. I couldn't believe my luck.
Only at dinner that night, between the bubbles of sparkling water, did I realise maybe (just maybe) I had completed my original mission after all.
Connor x
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