Bright on

The decision to flee came fast. Small grouped around pub table. I was freshly filled with catering-quality burger and cheap cider. I was fairly content, yet, some part of my soul had resigned itself to an intermminable, uninspired fortnight, slowly marching towards 'fate.'

Still clinging with white-blue fingers to regrets recently past, my mind heard tell of thoughts of travels to the beach. At the very mention I jumped (metaphorically) to grand, beautiul conclusions.

Within three hours we were cramped into two small vehicles, trundling at a frankly astonishing pace towards the blue expanse.

We had chosen Brighton as our destination. A mutual friend of all of ours had moved there very recently, and we needed to make sure he was okay, and that he wasn't enjoying a life we were all sadly missing out on. The journey began fairly late in the day, and as the car's air filters were filled with the tingly, briny fresh oceanic air my heart expanded and swelled, feasting on the pure tidal air.

We placed the cars in town and debated our next moves. It was too late to find a camp site and the parking boasted all-night possibilities.

Some were eager to set up camp. I, like the drivers, were eager merely for strong drink. We headed to the bar our friend had recently begun work at, hoping to find him ensconced in a bright, vibrant, beautiful new scene, amazing, wonderful people clinging on to his every word and fabric as he related harsh, embittered tales of Northampton, the lost land, neither as 'likely' and London or as nasty as the North, Middle England's triumph over solid character profiling.

He sat, keeping the interest of two beautiful, young ladies at the bar. Other than these two the place was empty. Beautiful, open to the street, wooden benches, leather chairs, shelves full of fine licquor. The bar fairly smelt of sea. The rapturous moment of reunion was beautiful. Then drinks occured. Many in our party had nothing to contribute to the bar tab, I however, was more than appropriately monied, so I proceeded to become admirably worse for wear.

Three drinks in thirty minutes and several had accidentally indulged in all manner of things. No sooner had we done this than people began expressing discontent at our lack of sleeping arrangements. This briefly registered as a factor but I soon agreed with Scott that there was a seemingly limitless expanse of coastline, no detectable wind and a forecast of the most beautiful weather the country has seen all year due as of tomorrow morning.

We gathered items to see the midnight spectacle of Brighton's skeletal, ominous West Pier. As we sat, uniformly facing the vast, black, roaring entity as it lapped around the roots of this living, breathing monument to the destroyed dreams of a time long since past, the structure beckoned me.

'Here I am, just over here, the water's lovely, come and see me, climb me.'

But I was fortunately still together enough to resist the temptation to climb the no doubt fatal former pier.

But the mind does wander.

'Everybody seems to want to go to Mark's house and stay there until the morning.' I explained to Scott.

'But we're on the beach.'

'I know, but they want to go inside.'

'We could have done that at home.'

'I know... I don't think we should do it here.'

'Definitely not.'

I checked my bag. Many, many beers, a coat, a blanket, food, medicine, treats, paper, pen, cigarettes...

'I think we should see what's over there,' I suggested, pointing vaguely to the shore curving out to the left of the pier, 'I bet whatever's over there is more interesting than what's here.'

We convinced the rest of our group that it what a good idea leaving two alcohol and substance fuelled humans to explore the barrier between land and sea with startling efficacy and bade them a fond farewell, promising we shall switch phones on and be contactable at daybreak. I hoped this wouldn't be necessary, but anything could happen between later and now so I was prepared for all eventualities.

As we walked the millions of unwieldy, uncomfortable, pitch black pebbles hindered our progress. We crossed two giant concrete walls 9that later, to our delight, discovered were named 'groynes,') and a few hundred yards of awkward beach before deciding to rest for a little while. It was time to consider what lay ahead.

Slow progress was made but much discussion was had. The love for theatre, performance, entertainment reared it's ugly head and we disputed the nature of the purpose of living to entertain, inform and offend. 'Til the sun rose from behind the flats, houses and hotels of Brighton front we made little progress across land, but gigantic leaps in understanding the world and what made it laugh and think.

As daylight crept across the ground, illuminating the world around us, we became aware of civillians using this sombre time of day to prepare themselves in the ocean.

We had discussed the obtaining of presents for those close to us back home. We had decided on presents that our friends would enjoy. We had also decided that not contacting our travelling partners for a few days would be far more interestng than just going home.

We continued our quest to see what was 'over there' until we happened across two young girls frolicking in the brisk morning waves.

The presents would be as follows:

Achieve something that would make Cid applaud.

Get Cid a wave.

Find Garrett either a frog or a crab.

Get a present for Thompson.

Get a wave from the sea and wave at Cid.


Before overfilling our task list it became clear these would require focusing on first. There was no suitable shore for collecting wildlife for miles yet, the vast reach of Brighton's promenades and walkways had shone right to the horizon all night, that would be a gift to obtain during days five to ten.

The bottle we planned to catch a wave in still had the vital remains of the non-alcoholic beverage within, so that could wait 'til later.

Thompson. This man needed a present more than most. But how? What would be fitting?

Exhausted from all these kind thoughts we settled back into making sure we were as unsober as possible. This took very little time, and we soon decided it was a good idea to stay here for a while.

'I reckon, we should just say to hell with it and find ourselves some means of employment whilst we figure out how to get back home.' I had already begun to worry how we'd make it home, and craved the comfort of earnings.

'But we look like shit, how can we get jobs looking like this?' Scott's question was reasonable. I wouldn't have employed me.

Flicking through the mucky pages of my memory I recalled, as we parked, seeing two gentlemen stood outside the back door of a casino it tuxedoes. Very nice tuxedoes come to think of it.

'Maybe we could borrow their tuxedoes,' I ventured.

'They won't be working again 'til tonight. We have a lot of presents to get remember.'

'Well, when night comes round we'll just borrow their tuxedoes. Use today to arrange an interview for tomorrow.'

'They won't give us suits.'

'God damn it,' I shouted, 'But we need this work. Otherwise how're we going to get Thompson his present.'

Simultaneously we eyed each other, sharing the greatest idea we've ever had.

'GUNS? GUNS? DO YOU HAVE, OR KNOW WHERE TO GET GUNS?' we shouted in unison at the frolicking water-girls. 'GUNS? IT'S VERY IMPORTANT.'

Abject terror smothered both of them. One fell backwards into the surf and curled up foetally, floating briefly on top of the lapping waves. The other stood, alarmed by the frankness of our inquiry. As we got louder and closer they seemed less likely to provide help.

We never actually reached them. One evaded us and returned to shore, the other fled into the rolling arms of the Channel. I am almost one hundred percent certain I saw her shape come to shore some half an hour later but I couldn't be sure, as I didn't want to approach too closely for fear of reprisal.

We returned to shore and reconsidered our tactics. We drew up a series of plans, each working into the other dependent on the outcome of the individually numbered steps. The plan overall consisted of the following steps:

Find guns.

Steal tuxedoes.

Get job interviews.

Save up.

Get healthy.

Read more.

Buy Thompson a present.

Make Cid applaud.

This seemed fairly rational, however we devised a number of routes to this conclusion. Obtaining guns through Brighton's criminal underclass was out of the question, we were in no position to barter for offensive weapons, and we had no money.

'Do coastguards carry guns?'

'Maybe on their boats. How do we find out?'

It was really the only reasonable option. When you need a lifeguard you need an accident.

'Hi there, lovely morning.'

The lady responded on Spanish, and Scott and I were none the wiser.

'I said, lovely morning isn't it?' I tried again, hoping she'd make this easier for all involved.

'Yes, thank you, good holiday!' So her English was less than perfect. This didn't matter.

Plan A, Step 1: Drown Person.

Her ankles kicked about an awful lot, splashing around, breaking free momentarily from my grip and then getting caught again in the freezing splashes of sea. Scott's headlock had been ineffectual. Despite the struggling however we were soon the proud owners of a poor, drowned tourist. The plan had so far worked. Wracked with guilt, Scott and I were forced to obtain the assistance of a passing lifeguard. Preparation would have entailed us having at least two flares. No such luck.

Three hours floating in the cold, vacant water before assistance came. As we were dragged from the current a dumbfounded coast guard offered sympathy for our discovery of the poor Spanish lady. We were swathed in blankets and told we'd be home soon. I saw no guns near him, but I saw a tazer strapped to his left leg.

Obtaining the tazer was more troublesome. The man was tall, fit, strong as an ox, and it took all of twenty minutes to make him sink back to the sea floor.

An issue had arisen. We were now in possesion of; Spanish corpse, Sea tazer, Coast Guard boat, vital bag of supplies and heavy, heavy hearts. Between us we surmised that the security guards in tuxedoes that will go out the back for a cigarette tonight would most likely withstand the bite of mere tazers, and unpicking the spines from their skin would potentially ruin the finish of the tuxedoes they were wearing. Then we'd look woefully less than dapper at our interviews. A new plan was drafted:

Step 4: Use tazer to interrogate police officer as to whereabouts of guns.

Step 5: Get tuxedoes.

I was sure that by this late juncture any passing officer of the law would be willing to grant us an audience, but I knew it would put us at a disadvantage. We needed a more innocuous opening gambit.

If cargo ships aren't born from lightning striking the sea's surface then they should be, and we've all been wasting our time here.

'Let's sail to unprotected waters and get guns from pirates. We might even see some lightning and cargo ships being born.'

Within minutes we had set sail for unprotected waters. This was a long way away, we knew that much. We weren't 100% sure which way they were, or whether we'd make it (we were down to twelve beers left, dire straits.) The sea was choppy and the beaches were beginning to fill. As far as we knew no one was after us yet, but we were both very confident it wasn't safe to return to the casino where we could get the tuxedoes from 'til night fell.

'Over there' had a large hill behind it, carving a promising obelisk to journey to. We set a course and set sail in our sail-less vessel. The sun by now has fully emerged and was slinging the most skin tingling rays I'd felt since my travels in Equatorial Africa.

The hill grew slowly larger, and as we trudged towards it a sense, inexplicable yet impossible to ignore, that upon the hill sat a restaurant offering buffet lunch. By my approximations the sun was four to five hours from high noon. More than ample time.

A lack of seafaring skills meant the shorebound tides outfoxed my navigational skills. We collided with the mostly submerged concrete groyne just in time to greet the first wave of sun-hungry visitors. There was some commotion, and a fisherman planted deep within the surf suffered terribly as the speeding craft leapt into the air, right through his fishing rods, truss, boxes of equipment and semi-naked countenance. The Spanish corpse flew skyward and landed with a thud some four hundred yards from the shore in a perfect swallow dive.

Regaining consciousness, the back of my body pocked with pebbles, I saw before me a balding native gesticulating wildly. I was, somewhat miraculously, still clinging to the all-important satchel of supplies and Scott regained his consciousness almost simultaneously.

Running was difficult. Soaked to the skin and clutching heavy bag and clothes, the morning trade glared at us like beasts destroying the sombre calm of the beautiful morning atmosphere. But I still had the tazer. We would have jobs by sun-up tomorrow.

We found an old gentleman in a cream suit and stetson. He was aged beyond count, ruddied by a life of salty gales and hard graft. We had brunch, he enjoyed his especially, and we inquired about several of our tasks. He didn't know the whereabouts of any guns, but told us of a police station just a couple of miles 'over there' which gave us hope.

Back on the beach. Calm. At peace. Mind flitting at set intervals between complete focus on the impossibility of the sea, and the fearful facts that lie on land. The opportunities. To live on the sea for a month, just you and the sea. Safe. Apart from everything. No consideration but the size of the waves, the heat of the sun and the next meal. Imagine being that free.

Within seconds of entering the police station the flaws of our plans became paramount. Fleeing the scene was a lengthy process, and one that I'm still unsure of whether the police knew they were involved or not. There were a lot of them, but none of them looked like they knew what they were doing. At rest on the beach some minutes later, it was decided we needed to make contact. An hour passed and all plans were described in detail in letters to Cid and Kitty. Now all we needed was a post office.

Brighton Post Offices are very friendly places and the letters disappeared from our grips with the grace and ease of a butterfly. Thank you Brighton and Hove Post Office.

Were we in Brighton or Hove? I thought we had made it to Hove by this point, which made me feel satisfied that the day had not been in vein. We still, however needed guns, and Hove was looking as gun-free as Brighton. Despite some placards subtly describing our plight being read by several what looked like natives, no guns came our way. It was time to call in the troops.

Apparently none of our friends could get any guns, so we decided not to talk to them again and focus on the task in hand.

We couldn't believe our eyes. Laying there on the beach, was a big, shiny gun.

Getting the tuxedoes the following evening was easy. So easy that, using the gun as well, we secured a shift as security guards for some underground poker tournament that apparently wasn't happening at all.

By day break the next day we had money, tuxedoes, guns and breakfast.

Thompson was purchased a really big drum made by a small man on the beach. It was lovely and smelt of kelp.

I still want to go into unprotected waters.

THE END