Waiting For His Wave

Waiting for His Wave

  It was a chilly September day when Phil took his folding chair and flask of freshly-brewed coffee down to the beach. He wore his old Norwegian jumper, lightweight trousers and plimsolls. He never seemed to feel the cold, not even in the middle of winter. Apparently, his metabolism was geared more towards the cold than towards the warmth.

  Once a week, usually on a Thursday morning, Phil would go to the beach and spend the morning there waiting for his wave. It was his time-out moment and he was determined to continue this habit until the day his wave arrived. He’d started this routine when the war broke out and an errant bomb had wiped out his whole family. He should have also been in the house on that fateful day but he was delivering potatoes to the local chip factory. Normally speaking his eldest boy would have gone but he had been down with flu and now he, along with his mother, grandfather and three siblings were collateral damage in a war which nobody had wanted, apart from one man. Phil had often lately been wondering why it was that when one person wanted war and millions didn’t, it still happened.

  Thursday was his day of mourning and the rest of the week he just survived. he knew that if he were to walk into the sea with his pockets full of rocks, he would have no more pain and he would be reunited with his loved ones, but that would be handing over victory to the idiot who had plunged his world into this catastrophe, and that was something he refused to do. He would stare him down and wait for his wave to arrive.

  The war itself had now been relegated to the pages of history books.    Five years ago the narcissistic monster’s own people had overthrown him, horrified at the unnecessary loss of so many innocent lives. He was now incarcerated for life after his war crimes had been proven at a tribunal.     Once again peace had returned but Phil still kept to his weekly ritual. 

He remembered thinking about the world-wide call for the death penalty but Phil agreed unreservedly with what Marten Luther King once said: “we must give praise for every child that is born but let us not rejoice in the death of one human being, not even an enemy”.

  Phil always started his Thursday morning meditation with a small prayer to his God: ‘Thank you father for being there for me and your will be done. I believe your will to be peace, joy and love on this earth and therefore I repeat wholeheartedly, your will be done’. He then drank his first cup of coffee and settled down to watch the waves.

  Phil had once seen a photograph taken by a Frenchman called Matthieu

Rivrin, of a wave crashing into the sea wall in Brittany and the shape 

resembled the ill-tempered God of the sea, Poseidon. It really caused a great stir on the internet but to Phil it wasn’t a strange phenomenon. He saw the images of his wife and children every time a wave crashed onto the shore, almost as if they were gambolling over each other to be the first to greet him. It was a spectacle which released much of the tension in his mind but, at the same time, poured in more sorrow for him to cope with the rest of the week.

  His days were comparable to the tide, coming in at full force and then receding for a while. He’d become used to it and, if truth be told. It also gave him the strength to carry on.

  The first eighteen months, his anger was a tsunami, washing away everything in its path and threatening to totally engulf him. This changed one Thursday when, instead of staring at the waves he looked up at the sky and saw his wife, children and father pictured in the clouds. Instinctively, he knew they were now at peace. He brought his eyes back to the beach and although, he still saw the waves, he also looked past them and noticed how calm the sea was on the horizon. His anger had died out and now he could truly mourn.

  On this particular Thursday, he allowed his eyes to gaze at the transitional scene in front of him. He imagined the waves saying hello to him as they raised their aquamarine bodies and white frothy heads before falling onto the sand. The crashing sound was strangely soothing, especially when juxtaposed with the sound of the gulls on the cliffs around him.

  He bent down to pour his second cup of coffee and, on sitting up, he looked to his right and there, seated next to him was his late wife. She was still as beautiful as the day they were married. Her dark hair was plaited and coiled at the back of her head like one of the ancient Goddesses. Her eyes looked at him lovingly, a recognisable smile on her lips. She was wearing the green dress which held so many fond memories for him. It was the one she was wearing when he proposed to her and she made him wait a nervous twenty seconds before she said yes. Many times when he saw her wearing it, he would massage her neck and slowly open every button until he could caress her breasts. Those breasts, which had not only succoured his children but had also given him immense satisfaction. Today, however, this image didn’t arouse him, it only brought him a feeling of deep inner peace. He looked into his wife’s eyes and again she smiled back at him and blew him a kiss. Then she was gone.

  With tears in his eyes he returned his gaze to the scene he knew so well. Far out at sea, a wave was beginning to form and through his tears he 

could just make out the photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. 

They weren’t looking at the photographer and his camera as they only had eyes for each other on that day. Phil smiled and waved and his cup of coffee fell out of his hand and the hot liquid formed a pool in the sand. Phil’s wave had come for him and all he felt was joy, peace and love as his heart stopped ticking.