by The Awethors
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Town was empty; the early morning light fell on last night’s streets and cleaned them. I could see a few of the smaller boats in the harbour were springing into life. It would be hours before the shutters on the shop fronts were lifted. I drove past the café, noting without caring that in my haste I had forgotten to drop the shutter. I put my foot down again, and headed out towards the dunes. In moments the bundled little town gave way to the wild marram grassland on which it huddled against the wind. I headed north on the coast road, away from what civilisation there was. My mind raced with images, a spectral collage of summer days and inky nights. As I cornered by Hunger Rock, I felt the storm winds on my cheeks and was transported in time to a night nearly half a century before. Racing through the dunes, battered by rain and gale, grass and clothing sticking to us, laughing as though nothing else would ever be this funny. In fifty years, nothing had ever been that funny. I managed a weak half-smile.