Completely contrary to my cautious nature, there was that one time I packed my bags at the end of December and ran away to the Wild Coast. It was just two days after my 23rd birthday and you had infected my homely heart with love and adventure, whisking me away in the rattle-trap elegance of a blue and white Golf.
But I did it all wrong, leaving home in a huff, and spent the journey sleeping off confused tears on the back seat, only surfacing when our travelling troupe of three stopped for a cold one in the Little Karoo. Or a pie in Port Alfred (or wherever it was). For last minute supplies in East London. And to help pitch the tents when we had finally managed to navigate the potholes of old Transkei, finding ourselves in a subtropical slice of heaven.
My heart had somewhat settled down and it all passed in a haze of fire-side banter, warm Indian Ocean waves, views from a little green hill, sweet-obsessed children, cows on the beach, fresh crayfish, mosquitos, a rainy new years day when we all decided to keep crawled into our sleeping bags…
Maybe I had hoped that the wildness of that ocean would wash over and consume me, making me a wild thing too… like you. And maybe it did… for a short while. But now, now I find it hard to remember exactly… and I can’t find the photos to remind myself.