Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Canoe Pool #1

September 30, 2009
Wednesday, around 4pm
Sunny, 70s, breezy
Canoe Pool
Newcastle Ocean Baths
Newcastle, Australia


The sea arrives in two distinct registers. In the deep foreground, it persists with the sort of omni-white noise for which it is known. The solid sound of unfathomable depths.

In the more immediate vicinity, the wave meet a broad, shallow rock shelf, cascading in and out of variously evanescent pools and channels.

Intermittently, I hear the dunking thud of a burst air pocket. Bass and aplomb.

To my left, inside the Canoe Pool itself, seagulls bicker. More and more of them descend upon the pool to wash off and flutter about. There seems to be a turf war.

I am having trouble identifying upon which sea vessel I have heard the fuzzed bass sound that seems to happen inside the interior of the wall upon which I sit.

“Bout to get a bit bubbly here soon.” A man and his son pass me as they walk the perimeter of the pool. He is concerned or friendly. Or both.

(Actually it’s only 3:30pm now.)

A tiny crab startled me, so I have relocated.

The father reassures me that they are “funny little creatures” and indicates where else he has seen them.

The sea is more distant now—mostly only the solid white noise of unfathomable depths. A frolicking family is closer at hand.

A dog trots by -- tags dangling and jangling.

Footsteps on sandy cement.
Loud adult voices speak to children.
Laughter.
Hushed adult voices speak to each other.

The seagulls are aloft once again, but still bicker.

There is a long, sustained splash in the pool, then another. Three boys are engaged in an aquatic version of skateboarding.

“Look at all the mice here.”

Children build sand hills reminiscent of the large dirt piles characteristic of Floridian subdivision construction. Only ant-sized.

Are there mice here?

“I’ve got awful knees. They’re shocking.”

Sea waves.
Water skateboard slide.

Doo-Doo: the sound of busy sand construction.

The breeze heads straight into my skull as it shift directions—momentarily muting al else.

A small plane flies overhead left to right with a loud bass rumble.

Kid coughs.

I become aware of the waves crashing further down, past the rock shelf.

Another plane flies higher and straight out to sea with a distant hummed whistle.

Seagull squawking upon return.

Board sliding.

Now, two voices to my left as well. A man and a woman with an umbrella who drink from golden goblets.

Running footsteps in shallow water.

A surfer jogs past behind me. His ankle bracelet thuds against the board with each sprightly step. The board sounds hollow—fiberglass.

Here we go – this way.

A toddler drags a sandaled foot across sandy cement in short, slow motions.

I have got a lot of sand.
I have got a lot of sand.

Pitter-patter in the water.

A far-away car, though I don’t know where the road is here.

Another plane is faintly heard, but not seen.

Wind in my left ear, but not my right.

I turn this page in protest to the wind that seems to want to keep it down where it was.

This page rustles.

Board is thrown down.
Feet run through water.
A thud.
Then a splash.
(Repeat)

All the while, the sea keeps beating into these rocks and itself.

A chunk of pages fly up.

A single sneeze from the golden goblets.

Board thrown. Missed the rest.

A more tranquil seagull-scape. Has the dispute been resolved?


A crunching sound passing right to left behind me. I though a bike, but it was a stroller.

Metal beach chairs are folded up and an umbrella slid down a metal post. The golden goblets are leaving their post near the waters edge.

The seagulls protest.

Lapping water.
Solid sound.

The metal is tinny as it passes behind. Creaky, but not unpleasantly.

Board sliding.
Board sliding.
Lots of fast water steps—in pursuit.

Flip-flop footsteps shuffle across the sand cement, then sit near me. A language that is not mine emits from the men now on the bench. Then they continue to shuffle round the platform toward the empty Ocean Bath.

“EEE – WAA – HAA !” These sand hills are getting rather tall. Their builders are obviously pleased with the process.

The stroller is thudded down the four steps to the bench platform.

Nylon touches down on sand.

I almost hear the bass thud, but it has more treble.

Wind distorts my left ear as I write.

More splashing.
Flip flop shuffle.

A drags the ankle bracelet responsible for tethering him to his boogie board. “I want to put it right here.”

And so he does.

A distant scream.

“Attention, please…”—and a long recommendation. This comes from a powerful PA system, and is presumably a directive be a life guard. I have no clue what he has said except that he’d like someone’s attention, please.

A sneeze; seagull chirping; a sneeze.

“I will! As long as we can have a pesticide swim!”
“Yep.”

Water streams out of a nearby shower faucet. I hear the water and air move in the pipes.

Children cackle from the far reaches of the pool. One emits a guttural exhale that makes me think the water might be cold.

These water skateboard kids are still at it.

A high-pitched children’s scream over nearer the ocean.

More splashing as a naked kid runs in circles in the shallowest part of the pool.

The boarders have stopped and now sit in the water soundlessly.

These sand kids have departed and appeared to have demolished this sand hill city.

Another surfer rushes past with panted breath.

Yo-Pa! Yo-Pa! Yo-----Pa!

Seagull chirping.
Waves crash.
Velcro.

A hand patting wet sand makes a clapping sound. Sand rendered prosthetic. Beats out an arrhythmic beat.

Distant seagulls.
A plane, or traffic.

Running in shallow water that scarcely covers your foot.

A father swings one kid—the naked one getting a sun burn—wildly in a circle. He squeals. Meanwhile, the mother urgently cautions another child: “Henry, be careful.”

The wind has picked up, and waves vociferously pound the distant rock wall on the far ahead and left side of the pool.

I will walk there.

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