Dolphin Address 42
November 3th 2005
Head winded spray waves in wide lines plunge across the land brake, while crawler clouds, big with rain, seem to cling out of breath to the Slieve. The gale screams around the back doors of the bus and hoots on the open end of the rear bar. In a dry spell I hasten to do my jobby, but the drizzard hits me cold and drenching, a true water closet.
Same on the road. Shaft deep puddles throw a bow wave over the roof when the bus takes ruthless dives. Sometimes I drive along a streamlet that crossly swirls its hasty burden to the sea. Overgrown ruins slowly dissolve in time.
Up from Doolin to Lahinch through rust brown bog grass and evergreen rushes, a veiled panorama, wound through by a glistening water meadowing ribbon in a lost sunray. Always a thrill past the suicide collie by the old bike. Dripping signs with a cheerfully strolling chaplin under hurrying sailer clouds, incoming like a lid on a dip in the dunes.
By traffic jam through Lahinch where in quiet giant strides the surf jumps to size over the vast sands. In the 'travellers' cove worn out mobile Gypsy boxes are shaking in the wind. I can't help ducking under the old railway bridge and swing out of centre by the cruel hook that follows. The wipers on interval, whenever it does not come from above oncoming traffic will slash on the windscreen.
I figure the waves in the Boathouse Bay to be one and a half meter. As stated before one measures the height of the waves on the shore by the length of one's body, but in the water by the height of ones head, which instinctively makes them roughly eight times higher. In three weeks I put down 13 years of experience in the latest version of the WaterWing. This one is customised. It has become an instrument with infinite possibilities that one, as in music, must learn to play. No dust of dolphin to be seen between the naked beaten cliffs. Then, like the old days in my waterhole in Holland, I'll be my own dolphin.
Where I expected more resistance and therefore more thrust I cut through the wuthering waves with unanticipated ease on my way to 'Two bottle island'. A sudden frenzy of milled-in air bubbles, am I blown out of course? Holy Mackerel, I'm already there. I could shout out my euphoria, but then my snorkel fills up, so I have my ecstasy cooled by the chilly waters. A small deflection for one man, but an ocean closer to the dolphin. She, however, fails to appear on my party. Just ease down to 12 meter where eternal quiet rules. Do the trees in the forest also swing to and fro when there's nobody there? I think so, but I'm sure about the waves.
Back at the rocks time and again I am thrown out of balance. But I got the best hold in my hands. It's become wonderfully clear to me: after 13 years the WaterWing has matured. The moment has come to apply for a patent.
Jan Ploeg, Meadow Fanore, November 3th 2005
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