Dolphin Address 22
May 21th 2005
Things are getting tighter now. My initial resignation to Dusty’s absence was carried by confidence in her unpredictability. This was rather strengthened by both the times that we indeed saw her here. But she has been and stays away for a week now and so I leaped into darkness. Against my apprehension of the remote leash effect I have purchased a mobile phone. It is a snug little box that appears unprecedented in complexity to my untrained mind. If Rodin was still alive he undoubtedly would have immortalized ‘homo mobile telephono’ in marble as someone pondering his hand.
This afternoon I sat comfortably in the bus peering at showered undulating ferocity when the gadget suddenly went off in a quivering, growling frenzy. I almost immediately recognized the tremble function my brother once mentioned, but the fright kept running across my shoulders for a minute or so. Later Verena called from Berlin, telling me she had turned the alarm function on at Shannon, but set it wrongly at ‘pm’.
Until recently I had found a sound moment in my expectations over Dusty’s presence. But the Boathousebay is about 35 km’s from Fanore and in the light of her recent absence this is not very motivating. There is already an extensive mobile network of Delfinado’s, so I have braided myself in as well now. For Dolphin contributions I welcome incoming calls: 353-85-1242110. I have to emphasize though that I am not a travel agency. For that kind of info you’d better check
www.irishdolphins.com.
Still a dolphin less day at the Bhb is no pure waste of time. The ocean takes ever changing shapes and these are no seldom exuberant. This afternoon my view is substantially rougher than the times before. On the outer reefs the waves climb to virtual water mountains that pounce upon each other in orgies of blinding foam and closer, around the rock islets that I imagined to christen the Beluga, the Pilot whale and the Blue whale, the waves rant and rave in such a fashion that sometimes it looks as if the water is on hold and spurs the rocks to move like flashing dorsals. The swirling masses mill holes in the surface that is greedily filled by high splashing slosh fingers and foam fists. A gannet on warpath is skimming low over the outraged turbulence. A flock of cormorants awaits take off on a rising rock clad in dashing foam veils. Coastal flowers are non-stop wobbling on their stems. A submerging blow hole shoots cannon bursts of sea slash many meters into the air. Sometimes partly overshadowing cloud covers float by, lightening up a gilt-edged horizon. As the sun is sinking shadows draw deepening hollows in the profiles of the cliffs. What now could break the power of this beauty?
I feel an empty warning in my stomach. It is 8 o’clock on my phone box and a three quarters drive to my food hole in Doolin, where the kitchen closes at half nine. We are such a calculative species. Of course I can make a forward order on the phone, but this would take half an hour of study and if I call while driving I can only do half speed. Despairing I touch in the calculator function. Then a seagull chooses its moment to manure my windshield. That is an omen if any. I brush the ink from my eyes, turn the contact and put my square tomato to a growl. I shift mentally from digital to body language and can only think through my stomach. Let’s hit the pot, Jack!
Jan Ploeg, Boathousebay, May 21th 2005
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