slip-sliding away…..

It’s the last few minutes before bedtime, the day before my work year begins. A few days ago, we returned from a week-long Summer getaway to a few places far from home, along the Southern coast of our beautiful country.

And as I sit here, on the threshold of what’s to come, I wonder: 

What becomes of the places we visited, once the year has begun again?

I think of the water park we visited in Plettenberg, which is a magnet for holidaymakers each Summer. They stay open all year round, except for Winter. And they will obviously still get visitors from the town, and surrounding areas. But the masses come only in holidays – particular in Summer. 

And I picture that water park – teeming with kids and adults just a few days ago, all having fun in the sun…I picture that place, in the middle of nature, being deserted, or near empty, once the serious business of school and work starts again.

They would surely cut the staff numbers in off seasons. But would there be anyone visiting in on a weekday? Would the slides still run with water?

On a more abstract level, do those slides, that grass, that pool, those tubes…all the elements making up that experience…do they all feel lonely, deserted, abandoned once things quieten down?

I think of Storms River in Tsitsikama: a particular patch of mesmerising teal, wild water on the way to the beach and hike. Like the rest of the ocean, it will continue to display its magnificence, moving wildly, carving shapes into the rocks on a nano level moment after moment.

But not many will walk past to see it. The construction crew working on the building renovations there will perhaps marvel at it daily, and some adventure seekers, or hikers, or maybe foreign visitors on holiday. But most of us South Africans won’t see that water again, probably until the following Summer – for those who go again.

That suspension bridge over the ocean, too, will be quiet. I dearly wanted to capture a shot of it empty, but there was no chance at all with the number of people crossing. But in a few days or weeks, it’ll sit idle – swaying gently to the wind, over that water, untouched by human shoes.

And what of the Kaaiman’s River, where kayakers and other water sport adventurers filled the area over this holiday?

And the beach at Wilderness, where that old bridge which captured my attention will still stand, highway above it, with fewer vehicles driving up and down, passengers marveling at the incredible views from the road. And the sea snails on the shore will keep coming out in numbers, eating the blue bottles.

And the campsite at the dairy farm we stayed at, in the middle of the forest, with monkeys and baboons eager to get into the tents. But without people there, they’d find no treats.

And that magnificent house we stayed in at Plettenberg, with the amazing view of sunrise. That sun – the same sun we see here (but which I can never catch rising, because I have no vantage point at my home) – will rise every single morning over that water. But without us there. Without me there…my only moments, that Wednesday morning, now just fond memories of an incredibly spiritual experience, filled with wonder and prayer and writing. 

And the bat that visited two of our rooms on consecutive nights: will it stick around? Will it visit anyone else?

Will someone finally get my nephew’s ball, which his brother kicked into a tree in the dense forest right over the wall of the property hours into our stay there?

And that laundromat, which declined to serve us on the first day due to unmanageable bookings for days. They will still have business, but how much? Do they also make the bulk of their profits in Summer holidays?

And on that beach at Plett, the water will continue to ebb and flow – as the ocean always has, and always will, regardless of human presence or absence. The snorkelers will be far fewer. Those men hiring umbrellas and chairs will be strained for business. Do they stay year-round? Or are they seasonal, too?

And the wildlife ranch – with that crocodile mouth entrance which helped me to remember that I’d been there as a child in the 80s…I even remembered a few very vague memories of our visit there, with my cousins. How many people will go each day? Those cheetah cubs we petted will grow, and by the time the next year comes, they will be fully grown.

And all the other animals will continue as normal: a sad life confined to this environment, their only purpose being display things for humans. Would any of them prefer to be out in the wild? Or do they prefer a life of comfort and ease, with the downside being their imprisonment within the boundaries of their enclosures?

All these, and many other places – frequented by the hundreds and thousands of holidaymakers – now move on to their quiet times. And we, those holidaymakers, now return to work and school and life and stresses and demands and problems. And little moments of joy and personal growth and progress, and the full spectrum of Life.

And all we experienced on our Summer escapes – the feelings of freedom, and the memories of sights and sounds and tastes and touch – all of it, will fade away as Time and the grind of everyday life erodes our memories, and we place them into little compartments in our hearts and minds – recalled, fondly, at gatherings with those who were there with us. And recalled privately, when we browse through photos and videos we took – our only tangible ways of going back – momentarily – along with any physical keepsakes we retained…rocks or pebbles from the beach; a brochure from a place we visited; a T-shirt or hat or keyring from the gift shop we passed through.

And Life will move on. And we’ll change, and grow older, and get better, and worse. And we’ll live through whatever is destined for us this year.

And at the end of it all, when Summer rolls around again, we’ll make new memories, in new places, and repeat the cycle again and again, until we can no longer do so, and our lives reach their conclusions…

Such is life: seasons come and seasons go. And we merely have to appreciate each season, never longing too much for another – to the point of pain – but just taking the best we can from the one we’re currently in, and hoping that, for us, the best is yet to come.

So long, Summer…I’ll see you again next year, God-willing…