FIRE ON THE BEACH
Word'd got around. There was going to be a party down on Eastern Beach. Nick, Jim, Roger and I sat up on the cabin roof of the Ocean Gambler talking and smoking until 9.30 and it was dark and then walked out of Ernest's Yard to the beach. As we turned the last corner before the beach we saw the zebra van parked down on the sand and people sitting round a bonfire. Reggae music was blasting out from the van's stereo system.
The Londoner, Alan, already very drunk, danced around us and stole a hat that I'd decided to wear to keep out the September evening chill. We sat and lay on the sand and talked and stared into the flames of the fire. Malcolm arrived and began to roll a series of joints for the congregation. Malcolm always had dope on him, even though he was perpetually skint. Some time later the girls from the Malle Mok appeared, out of the darkness, and came to sit by Nick, Jim and me. We were stunned into shy silence.
So we relative strangers gathered beside the Mediterranean Sea, around a fire beneath the loom of the Rock of Gibraltar – talking, smoking, listening, thinking. Later, Nick and I went to grab some pallets from a yard close by to keep the blaze alive. A little later a Pole, who'd recently turned up on the streets and who spoke only a few words of English, stalked off into the night. We heard a loud rumbling behind us and turned to see the Pole running along the road that led to the beach rolling a huge wooden cable drum in front of him. We helped him roll it over the sand and stand it upright on top of the fire. The flames licked at the dry pine of the drum and began to flick up around it and through the central hole. As the flames took hold the Pole leapt on top of the drum and stood there, a wide proud smile on his face. He stood up there, a glorious Guy Fawkes, and stretched out his arms as the flames crept around the wood and reached for him. We watchers clapped and cheered. Then we fell silent, stoned; locked into our own thoughts.
I looked at the Pole, looked around at the others sitting and lying on the beach, all watching the spectacle, ringed by darkness. I felt the fellowship that had grown up around us – strangers who'd arrived, mostly alone, in this place, at this time, to stay awhile. A ragged bunch of chancers, escapees, searchers – all experiencing the weird sub-culture of life on the streets, life on the lam. I think we all felt it that night, there on Eastern Beach. It meant so much to me it bought tears to my eyes and I thought that for such moments as this I should always be travelling, always moving on, seeking the bond that there is in the camaraderie of the moment.
The flames got too high and the heat too intense for the Pole. He jumped off the cable drum onto the sand and broke the spell he’d cast.
The Londoner, Alan, already very drunk, danced around us and stole a hat that I'd decided to wear to keep out the September evening chill. We sat and lay on the sand and talked and stared into the flames of the fire. Malcolm arrived and began to roll a series of joints for the congregation. Malcolm always had dope on him, even though he was perpetually skint. Some time later the girls from the Malle Mok appeared, out of the darkness, and came to sit by Nick, Jim and me. We were stunned into shy silence.
So we relative strangers gathered beside the Mediterranean Sea, around a fire beneath the loom of the Rock of Gibraltar – talking, smoking, listening, thinking. Later, Nick and I went to grab some pallets from a yard close by to keep the blaze alive. A little later a Pole, who'd recently turned up on the streets and who spoke only a few words of English, stalked off into the night. We heard a loud rumbling behind us and turned to see the Pole running along the road that led to the beach rolling a huge wooden cable drum in front of him. We helped him roll it over the sand and stand it upright on top of the fire. The flames licked at the dry pine of the drum and began to flick up around it and through the central hole. As the flames took hold the Pole leapt on top of the drum and stood there, a wide proud smile on his face. He stood up there, a glorious Guy Fawkes, and stretched out his arms as the flames crept around the wood and reached for him. We watchers clapped and cheered. Then we fell silent, stoned; locked into our own thoughts.
I looked at the Pole, looked around at the others sitting and lying on the beach, all watching the spectacle, ringed by darkness. I felt the fellowship that had grown up around us – strangers who'd arrived, mostly alone, in this place, at this time, to stay awhile. A ragged bunch of chancers, escapees, searchers – all experiencing the weird sub-culture of life on the streets, life on the lam. I think we all felt it that night, there on Eastern Beach. It meant so much to me it bought tears to my eyes and I thought that for such moments as this I should always be travelling, always moving on, seeking the bond that there is in the camaraderie of the moment.
The flames got too high and the heat too intense for the Pole. He jumped off the cable drum onto the sand and broke the spell he’d cast.