Frozen in a Moment

The heat is oppressive. You go outside and within minutes you can feel it dripping down your face, dripping down your hair, making your t-shirt stick to your skin. But you adjust, you get used to it. It is the natural state after all. Embrace the sweat. It's all that you can do.

I'm not complaining. I could sit out on the verandah for hours looking at the lush vegetation, listening to the birds and frogs, watching the lizards

I just miss being able to do things. When I think of a few weeks ago, cycling along East Point at sunset, people-watching, looking at the tropical sunset through the moisture, and thinking, "This is it. I'm here."

The last East Point sunset I remember vividly. I was smoking a cigarette on a bench looking out at the swollen orange sun hanging above the Timor sea. And I felt content. Not happy, not sad, just content.

A woman came near, with her daughter. The daughter had down syndrome. She didn't look like she spoke much, and she retreated to the corner, and looked away, to a place where she felt safe.

The woman had spent too many years in the blazing heat and her skin was shrivelled up like a used condom. But there was a kindness in her gait. Kindness and sadness. Sadness at how life can be so uninspiring, even in front of this ecclesiastical sunset.

For a few moments we sat in silence, watching the sun go down.

There were three figures which in the distance had looked like whales, or dolphins. But as they came closer it was clear they were people. People in rowing boats. I was thinking how stupid they were, as there were signs all around the beach saying it was dangerous to go into the water. Unless, of course you wanted eaten by a croc, or stung by a box jellyfish.

"Look at those silly people, out in the sea. Don't they know how dangerous it is"

It was the woman beside me. I agreed with her and went back to my sun gazing. But it was no use. A dam had been unlocked, and she didn't want to close it again.

So she talked and talked. Told me about her history, her life, her family, all that had brought her to this moment, watching another lonely sunset with her silent daughter.

I could imagine her, living alone with her daughter. Looking ater her, wondering who would when she was gone. Watching sunset after sunset. Alone. Silence. Endless silence all day. Endless silence to think about the past, to think of the people you met, and lost, to think of the people you never met, the things you didn't do.

Too much time alone is a dangerous thing.

My initial desire to experience this spiritual sunset with my constant companion of the past year, Solitude, was quickly surpassed by my desire to be nice to this woman. To listen to her, to talk to her.

Her daughter stayed at a safe distance, looking over occasionally, too frightened to come close.

As the sun went down over the horizon the old woman said,
"That was a disappointing one. I've seen better."
I laughed and said,
"There'll be another".
She then said she must go on, and that it was nice to meet me, and that she hoped I enjoyed the rest of my travels.

I remember cycling off and thinking to myself how sorry I was for that woman, how afraid I was of getting old, and how happy I was to be young, fit and healthy and on my bike in this beautiful part of the world.

That was the last sunset I saw overlooking the ocean in Darwin.

The next day was the day I fell off my shiny new bike.

The old woman and her daughter are probably sitting there right now, where they will always be sitting. Looking over the ocean, watching the sun go down.

Frozen in a moment.