What Lies Beneath...

There was an old man who exercised on the hotel jetty.

‘Bonjouir’

We shared politely after my morning paddle in the water that met the jetty’s edge.

When he’d arrived, I’d feel young, agile, and attractive.

He must have been at least 70 years old. So at 29, you’d hope (or expect) that I’d feel this way. But feeling old and most likely past it was how I had felt most of my life. So young and agile was something. Particularly considering it was lean, six-packed torsos of the French water-sport-enthusiasts who populated my hotel. Their presence, and their beautiful families only served to make me feel squishy.

Righteously squishy of course, as I’d sun myself and read my book, sucked on fresh fruit dacquiris, and took surreptitious glances at their proportioned bodies making laps of the pool for fun -

At least I know how to holiday.

The old man would wander down in his swimming trunks with his sinewy, taught, aging muscles. He was French. They all were. Except for the group of New Zealand parents, who liked white wine and bland humour. But they are warm and I like to eves drop on their conversation, like a child listening to the grown ups at a dinner party.

Every morning, I woke naturally with no alarm except for a dry mouth and a craving for water; a need to drink and an ache for a body of water to put myself into. I would wake a little fuddle-headed and bleary eyed, with cocktails from the night before leaving a lovely haze over the 28-degree and humid day. The sun would make shafts through the mountain peaks; they were wholesome, virtuous starts.

I would appear from the hotel, slightly blobby after filling my face with French cheese and downloaded TV shows from the night before.

Buxom.

I tell myself.

The squishy bits are womanly, warm, inviting.

They actually just make me feel like I’ve lost some sort of teenage battle. But I was here to relax, so me and my ‘curves’ fumble our way down to the jetty. Sunglasses planted firmly on my cheese-consuming face, and cloaked in a well-rehearsed, made-up air of nonchalance (to compensate for any self-consciousness).

The fuddle-headedness would clear immediately when I’d put myself into the sea. Cool, deep, blue. Skin, mind, washed, cleansed.

Here, I feel I am holiday. Here, in the water, I am weightless.

Dripping with sea salt and warmed by the island sun, I’d lift myself from the turquoise ocean. I’d wrap the hotel’s towel around me; safe, dry and comforting. And I would stare back down at the water and watch the darting, coloured fish.

I imaged this place as my home.

Days would be lazy and light. Life would be easy. There’s not much to do, except watch sunsets and decipher French accents.

Perhaps I could write.

But write what? Self-absorbed compositions about holidays? I can’t be sure. But the idea of being an artist on that island centered me. And I’d start to paint myself as a modern day Gauguin… except not mental. And not a painter.

And I would certainly not call anybody “savages”.

A Tahitian Frida Kahlo, perhaps?

But it’s just a water-colour painting – whimsical, unsubstantial. I would still just be me, only surrounded by orange bananas and Hibiscus flowers. And I'm not a painter. The fantasy still looked pretty good though; as fantasies do against the blobbiness of reality.

The gentle lapping of the tide against the jetty’s legs made for a rhythmic beat that encouraged poetic dreams and meandering thoughts. But I’m prone to chronic contemplation.

Most days, a rising need to jump off the jetty would surface. I wanted to jump, splash and disturb the quiet bay. Disperse the fish and make waves. Ruffle my feathers; change the pace.

Most days, I didn’t.

Instead, I wondered what I was doing with my life and watched the bright, fluro fish snap from one direction to the other.

Am I fulfilling my responsibilities to my Nan and Pop’s forgone dreams to be an aerial artist and a vaudeville performer?

Have I run away with circus?

Have I become a tap dancing explorer of Egypt?

Maybe it was family curse to day-dream.

And besides, is any of this enough to bring to the world?

And why was I here alone…?

It was a question I would be asked many times during my time away. And I didn’t have an answer.

I wanted to forget the questions and jump off the jetty. Leap, bound, jump, throw myself in the water. It was here, on the edge of that jetty, on my holiday alone, facing the water that I realised I wanted a partner, a lover, a friend to jump off with me. Someone to wave or laugh or make a pfft sound at any and all the cautiousness that held me back…

I knew the tentative thoughts were unreasonable –

What if it’s too shallow and I break my neck?

What if land on an eel and it goes up my…*coughs* you know…?

What if I look foolish and reveal a part of myself I didn’t have control over? God forbid I mar my well-rehearsed air of nonchalance.

In this moment, I promised myself by the end of my holiday I would jump off the jetty. By myself. I would make my own pfft sounds. I didn’t need anyone to do it for me.

Another well-rehearsed mantra.

One day, he spoke to me.

Not God.

Not a good looking, 30-something with a caustic wit, a kind heart and a sense of social justice with whom to fall in love with - just the old man from up the hill, who exercised on the jetty. The 70 year old.

He spoke to me.

In French.

I didn’t speak French. Still don’t.

Jeh, mah, parhl, vah, fraun-say, I quoted in my head then…

‘Jeh, mah, parhl, vah, fraun-say’ I said it out loud.

‘Ah, Canadian?’ He said. In French.

Canadians speak French. I’m not Canadian and I don’t speak French.

I could only assume that I must say Bonjouir really well, as this was a constant confusion for me in French Polynesia. I would say Bonjouir, then a sprinkler of French would be sprayed back at me with a pumping presumption that I would understand.

I didn’t.

Sometimes, at home, I put on a faux French accent and say ‘Baguette’ or ‘Croissant’. Aside from that, I do not speak French.

‘Au-stray-lee-aurn’. I said. And thought about saying yoplait. I didn’t. And in hindsight, I think it was probably for the best.

‘Ah’ He said in French. And then he continued speaking in French at me. He pointed to the water I’d emerged from, the salt from which was beginning to cling to my skin, tight and sticky, in a clean, clear, crinkly way.

I just blinked at him.

Now he got it.

I didn’t speak French.

To make up for it, he placed his forefinger and middle finger in a V shape, pointed to his eyes then to the water. Still. Speaking in French.

Then he took his hands out to the side and flapped them.

‘Oh, really?’ I said pretending to be impressed, wishing I did actually speak French. Because if I did, I would respond appropriately and would know if a great white shark had entered the shallows and was going to eat me… I’d be tasty. I’m Au-stray-lee-aurn. And notably seal-pup-like with my ‘buxom’ curves and naïve view of the world.

It was obvious by now that I had no idea what he as talking about and he started to exercise. After a few more hand gestures and French words from him and a few more dolt-like “mmm”s from me, the conversation was congenially over.

I tied my towel tightly around my belly, and I thought of breakfast.

Fruit. Coffee. That freaking amazing homemade yoghurt with fresh vanilla bean from Tahaa island… this really is paradise…

I smiled to the old man, offered a quiet, coy ‘au revoir’, and padded bare-foot down the jetty towards breakfast. I wondered what he saw in the water that I couldn’t? A turtle was what his impression looked most like. I hoped for a turtle. I’d loved turtles ever since I was child. Old, wise, patient. Qualities I like in humans too. But for some reason my mind ran to something more sinister. Something dangerous in the water below.

Mornings came and went. Soggy from gin and wine and sun-kissed bike rides, I woke and I swan and read and wrote and ate and bonjouir-ed my way around the island. A shaky scooter ride and some energetic hula performances helped tick off the “cultural” requirements of holidaying in a foreign country.

But I spent a lot of time staring into the water, thinking of different lives, projecting human characteristics onto the tropical fish, of dangerous sea creatures, and of whimsical, water-coloured futures for myself. Futures where I could breathe, where I could feel the sun and salted-crispiness of the sea. And I wondered why it felt so far away.

I never saw a shark or anything more than brightly coloured fish looking for tasty plankton. I did see an eel, once. It was near the shore, a long way from the jetty’s edge where I swan. It was harmless and from it’s facial expression (a perpetual state of shock) it was not looking to enter cavities, of any sort.

I never saw a turtle. But I did imagine being reincarnated as one. Then maybe I could be old, wise and patient too.

And I never did jump off the jetty. I always sank into the water, dipped myself cautiously via the ladder on the side. I’d plop in, then duck dive under. I’d breast stroke and float and day-dream. Careful not to make too many waves.