Time-travelling beaches.
Jul. 21st, 2006 06:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beccatoriaSo I decided to find out whether my suspicion was right, and whether the Beach Scene in the last episode of Doctor Who really was filmed on Southerndown Beach. (I was probably the only person watching the scene thinking, DAMMIT, QUIT WITH THE CLOSEUPS!)
Yay, it was! I love that beach. It's the most awesomest beach ever. It's so awesome, for my eighteenth birthday, I actually made my parents hire a mini van and someone to drive me and my friends down there for the day. It was the best birthday ever. Seriously, my love of this beach is totally irrational. It's just beautiful.
It's been ages since I posted any bits or pieces of writing on this blog (probably because I'm avoidant and shy about that sort of thing, but this place is anonymous enough I'm cool with it. I makes me feel I've accomplished something by being brave and also, if I don't have anything new to post, it's like...an unavoidable demonstration of my failure to produce anything. The *theory* being it'll prod me into writing more regularly). I've been struggling a bit to get back into it. I'm also still warring with my bloody desire to write fan fiction for this stupid show.
As a sort of compromise, since I don't really want to write fan fiction, and since I haven't really got enough new stuff to post from my "book", I'm going to post a nonfiction piece I wrote a while back about Southerndown beach and time and being a kid. I promise, the time aspect is purely coincidental.
My father tried his best to convince me that the car on the beach had been abandoned, pushed over the cliff, probably, he said, stolen. On that day, he could not distract me with rock pools or construction in the sand. I spent the afternoon with the car, and when my father bribed me away with ice cream and a new bucket and spade from the seasonal concrete hut in the car park, I kept glancing back when he was not looking. I had not really left it.
I believed it to be red, but this was difficult to prove; it had rusted from weeks in the sea air and salt water, and blistered from the fire as the impact of a two-hundred foot drop ignited the fuel. It was upside down. It had been compacted, like a person with no neck. The roof had been crushed until there was not enough room for the seats. All the space for a human head had been taken away.
I thought about the woodlice in our back garden. Small, stupid, armoured aliens that were too boxy to right themselves when they fell over. I thought about the wheel-legs of the car, useless in the open air, overturned like a great, dead insect.
The car did not scare me. It was pinned and trapped on wide slabs of rock. It would stay there until the undertow finally dislodged it and carried it across the expansive sand plain, carried it past the boulders, sticking up from the ground like lost teeth, trapping water and fish behind them in deep, swimming sand pools. Until it was carried out to open sea. And then, I supposed, it would be smashed to pieces and carried back one bolt at a time, like driftwood.
I knew the tidal range was vast. The second largest in the world, I had been told, second only to the Bay of Fundi. It spat things up. At the wrong time of day, there would be no sand, only hammering water and rocks and spat-up things to prod at. At the right time of day, the sand stretched, flat and wet, for longer than I could run without stopping. I would look at my feet, then, sure they were bruised from their endless slap-slapping against the soaked ground.
It was, perhaps, my first real understanding of geological time. Certainly it was the first time I thought about the magnitude, the pure logistics of putting something into the ocean, of spitting it back up again. I understood effects, end results, not the processes behind them. The second largest tidal range meant bruised feet to me. There were fossils on the dining room windowsill, ammonites I brought home in my bucket. My father diligently explained they were imprints of creatures that had lived tens of millions of years ago. But I understood them as snapshots, photographs, and supposed they had been made as quickly.
I had seen a clock in the city museum that showed how fast we were moving towards America. In my head it was a slow and stately affair. I imagined we would bump together gently, like docked ships.
But the car, I could not tell if all the pieces would be washed up or worn to nothing in my lifetime. The ocean was wide and older than I was.
We stayed at the beach all day, from a little below half tide to high tide. The waves swept up the flat beach, pushing long tongues of clear water up the sand, pulling them back to provide momentum for the next wave. The sea leapt forward, feet at a time. Had it not been late in the day, late in the season, almost time for the concrete hut to downgrade to a window-kiosk, and then shut down entirely, the beach would have been full of families, kite-flyers, dog-walkers, beachcombers, sun-bathers, all of them picking up their towels, packing up their beach bags, shrieking in delight as the waves appeared suddenly, magically at the corners of their pitches, soaking all their dry clothes.
As it was, the car was the only thing keeping my father and myself company as the waves began to break on the rocks that covered the higher part of the beach. The water hit, and sprayed, fanning out in a peacock's tail, joining with the mist-fine rain that had begun to fall. The rocks were as wide and flat as giant's paving slabs. But we were sitting even further up the beach. We were almost in the parking lot, in the dip between the two ancient cliffs, at the beach's only access point. Here there was only a small, steep run of blue-grey stones, the size of dinosaur eggs, comfortable in the hollow of a bare foot. The only part of the beach that is never submerged.
Slowly, almost parallel with us, the waves sank the car until I could only see the wheels during the dips between the waves, framed by the white, breaking foam, like the flare of a camera-flash, there and then gone again. Eventually I could not see the wheels at all, and I wondered if the car was being moved by the currents, if the din of the ocean was hiding the sound of metal and stone and the slow movement of a two-ton car-shell.
The water reached the edge of the stone slope, and then raised itself again, and again. It settled, just shy of the high tide waterline of dehydrated seaweed, dead leaves, dead driftwood, and dead, rusting soda cans.
My father and I listened to the perpetual thunder underneath the waves as rocks, sometimes the size of footballs, were lifted, thrown forward, pulled backwards, and smashed together mid-leap. I wondered what else was colliding under the water, and what else would survive down there, in that place that made sounds like the breaking sky.
Driving home, I felt the cliff was going to suck the car over. We would fall, tumble, rotate, land. Our roof would concertina, dust would rise, the tide would come and take us, and we would be a part of the undersea thunder. My bones, white and smooth like driftwood, would wash up on a shore five hundred years into the future.
Yay, it was! I love that beach. It's the most awesomest beach ever. It's so awesome, for my eighteenth birthday, I actually made my parents hire a mini van and someone to drive me and my friends down there for the day. It was the best birthday ever. Seriously, my love of this beach is totally irrational. It's just beautiful.
It's been ages since I posted any bits or pieces of writing on this blog (probably because I'm avoidant and shy about that sort of thing, but this place is anonymous enough I'm cool with it. I makes me feel I've accomplished something by being brave and also, if I don't have anything new to post, it's like...an unavoidable demonstration of my failure to produce anything. The *theory* being it'll prod me into writing more regularly). I've been struggling a bit to get back into it. I'm also still warring with my bloody desire to write fan fiction for this stupid show.
As a sort of compromise, since I don't really want to write fan fiction, and since I haven't really got enough new stuff to post from my "book", I'm going to post a nonfiction piece I wrote a while back about Southerndown beach and time and being a kid. I promise, the time aspect is purely coincidental.
My father tried his best to convince me that the car on the beach had been abandoned, pushed over the cliff, probably, he said, stolen. On that day, he could not distract me with rock pools or construction in the sand. I spent the afternoon with the car, and when my father bribed me away with ice cream and a new bucket and spade from the seasonal concrete hut in the car park, I kept glancing back when he was not looking. I had not really left it.
I believed it to be red, but this was difficult to prove; it had rusted from weeks in the sea air and salt water, and blistered from the fire as the impact of a two-hundred foot drop ignited the fuel. It was upside down. It had been compacted, like a person with no neck. The roof had been crushed until there was not enough room for the seats. All the space for a human head had been taken away.
I thought about the woodlice in our back garden. Small, stupid, armoured aliens that were too boxy to right themselves when they fell over. I thought about the wheel-legs of the car, useless in the open air, overturned like a great, dead insect.
The car did not scare me. It was pinned and trapped on wide slabs of rock. It would stay there until the undertow finally dislodged it and carried it across the expansive sand plain, carried it past the boulders, sticking up from the ground like lost teeth, trapping water and fish behind them in deep, swimming sand pools. Until it was carried out to open sea. And then, I supposed, it would be smashed to pieces and carried back one bolt at a time, like driftwood.
I knew the tidal range was vast. The second largest in the world, I had been told, second only to the Bay of Fundi. It spat things up. At the wrong time of day, there would be no sand, only hammering water and rocks and spat-up things to prod at. At the right time of day, the sand stretched, flat and wet, for longer than I could run without stopping. I would look at my feet, then, sure they were bruised from their endless slap-slapping against the soaked ground.
It was, perhaps, my first real understanding of geological time. Certainly it was the first time I thought about the magnitude, the pure logistics of putting something into the ocean, of spitting it back up again. I understood effects, end results, not the processes behind them. The second largest tidal range meant bruised feet to me. There were fossils on the dining room windowsill, ammonites I brought home in my bucket. My father diligently explained they were imprints of creatures that had lived tens of millions of years ago. But I understood them as snapshots, photographs, and supposed they had been made as quickly.
I had seen a clock in the city museum that showed how fast we were moving towards America. In my head it was a slow and stately affair. I imagined we would bump together gently, like docked ships.
But the car, I could not tell if all the pieces would be washed up or worn to nothing in my lifetime. The ocean was wide and older than I was.
We stayed at the beach all day, from a little below half tide to high tide. The waves swept up the flat beach, pushing long tongues of clear water up the sand, pulling them back to provide momentum for the next wave. The sea leapt forward, feet at a time. Had it not been late in the day, late in the season, almost time for the concrete hut to downgrade to a window-kiosk, and then shut down entirely, the beach would have been full of families, kite-flyers, dog-walkers, beachcombers, sun-bathers, all of them picking up their towels, packing up their beach bags, shrieking in delight as the waves appeared suddenly, magically at the corners of their pitches, soaking all their dry clothes.
As it was, the car was the only thing keeping my father and myself company as the waves began to break on the rocks that covered the higher part of the beach. The water hit, and sprayed, fanning out in a peacock's tail, joining with the mist-fine rain that had begun to fall. The rocks were as wide and flat as giant's paving slabs. But we were sitting even further up the beach. We were almost in the parking lot, in the dip between the two ancient cliffs, at the beach's only access point. Here there was only a small, steep run of blue-grey stones, the size of dinosaur eggs, comfortable in the hollow of a bare foot. The only part of the beach that is never submerged.
Slowly, almost parallel with us, the waves sank the car until I could only see the wheels during the dips between the waves, framed by the white, breaking foam, like the flare of a camera-flash, there and then gone again. Eventually I could not see the wheels at all, and I wondered if the car was being moved by the currents, if the din of the ocean was hiding the sound of metal and stone and the slow movement of a two-ton car-shell.
The water reached the edge of the stone slope, and then raised itself again, and again. It settled, just shy of the high tide waterline of dehydrated seaweed, dead leaves, dead driftwood, and dead, rusting soda cans.
My father and I listened to the perpetual thunder underneath the waves as rocks, sometimes the size of footballs, were lifted, thrown forward, pulled backwards, and smashed together mid-leap. I wondered what else was colliding under the water, and what else would survive down there, in that place that made sounds like the breaking sky.
Driving home, I felt the cliff was going to suck the car over. We would fall, tumble, rotate, land. Our roof would concertina, dust would rise, the tide would come and take us, and we would be a part of the undersea thunder. My bones, white and smooth like driftwood, would wash up on a shore five hundred years into the future.
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 02:46 am (UTC)so it's extremely unlikely that you remember me, and i really hope you're who i think you are: that is, one Beccatoria from the olden days of the White Wolf Changeling forums. anyway, I recently got all crazy nostalgic and started trying to find people that I remembered and got along with, which led me to this journal. so if you are indeed the same Becca who once sent me the full Welsh pronounciation of "Llanfairpwll...", then... well, how've you been the past three years? :)
~~ AlecRavager, or, as they call me nowadays, "Pooka"
(sometimes signing with "Hey, there goes Edna with a saxophone!")
P.S. feel free to countercomment/add, or simply ignore/raise an eyebrow at your leisure
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 06:54 am (UTC)Yeah, dude, it's me, how have *you* been? Still in touch with anyone? Me, not so much. I spent some time on the Shadownessence forums - and it was pretty awesome around there - after WW changed and got rid of the changeling forum, but somehow it just didn't stick. I keep meaning to go back there. Gatharion and Suril are big presences if all remains the same.
Did you stick around at the new WW forums or move to Shadownessense? What are you up to? How have you been?
I don't live in Wales anymore (it's Plymouth now, and it's okay down here) and I grew up enough to get a job, but I tell myself it's only for the money. Definitely still roleplaying. Even have a changeling game going! Though it's currently on a bit of a hiatus.
Thanks for "dropping by." Mind if I friend you?
Becca.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 08:55 pm (UTC)I may have done that translation thing. It really is best to put it in game terms: the online Mists got me for awhile, and now I'm back and trying to reconnect. I remember snatches of games, conversations, people, etc... random phrases like "Nightstones was an awesome chronicle", or "Fhengal's a jerk". I actually emailed BEAU last week, and he directed me to SnE, where I have just made my first couple posts. :) I was pretty sorely disappointed by the new WW forums (and actually the whole nWoD in general) when I paid visits.
I did a changeling game through late 2003 - first half of 2004 (first year at college), and I'm just now talking to some of my players online... they want me to finish up the chronicle and start another one for a new generation of players. The dream lives. ^_^ Meanwhile, I'm preparing to graduate, move to Europe, and do all sorts of languagey business. And yes, I am quite in New Jersey, although Cherry Hill is outside of Philadelphia, not New York. But I school in New Brunswick, which is halfway to Englewood. Hurrah!
Anyway. Talk to you in the near future, I hope! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 06:57 am (UTC)I'm not sure what will happen if you ever look for Fhengal. Last I heard he decided changeling was a bad influence on his life and burned - yes BURNED - all his books. Which made me more worried for him than anything.
Have you been in touch with Charlie? Do you remember him? It's been ages, but I do have his email which I'm fairly certain will still work. And if you remember them, he can probably point you in the direction of Medreut and The Mess.
I was disappointed in the nWoD too. Not because it was a bad game, but because it basically seemed like the same game, but with emo angst instead of gothic 90s angst, and that wasn't enough to make me want to shell out so much cash for it. A little 3.5 D&D.
I think I missed online gaming with you - I went to college in late 2001 and it was 2002/3 that I really dropped out of the forum life (sadly).
Anywhere in particular you're planning to go in Europe or are you going to move around? I'm always so awed by linguists. It's something I just absolutely can't "get". I mean, I'm bilingual by virtue of having learned a language when very young, but while I'm not *terrible* at languages, it really isn't something I can just "pick up". People who can always floor me.
And yay for NJ! Also yay for Philly! I have a welsh-speaking not-aunt (close family friend) who lives in the PA suburbs around Philadelphia. Actually I need to go see her soon, cos she's really cool.
Anyway, wow, this was long. I guess catching up will do that. Hope to see you around and have a great day. I have to go to work. OH THE BANALITY! ;)
Becka.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 07:21 am (UTC)Where's Cherry Hill?