Absent Friends

Every evening for the last year, I have come to this place, this
location of sadness, and stood gazing into the water at twilight,
remembering. I always choose the same spot, the farthest end of the
long, wooden pontoon at the east side of the harbour. It is anchored to
the seabed, but moves easily with the lapping of the water, and to
tread carelessly is to risk being tipped sideways into the unwelcoming
deep. I say deep, but I am unsure how far down the water is, here. I do
know that about two hundred feet out the ground drops away suddenly,
plunging to depths of murky darkness. I also know what lies
there.

In certain conditions, when the tide is out and the sky is bright and
illuminating, you can, if compelled, take a rowing boat out to the
beginning of the shadows and look over the side, down through the green
murk and driftwood, and see what remains of the Kiara B, the sailing
boat my dearest friend's father bought for her twenty-first birthday. I
stand now where I always do, balanced precariously on the edge of the
pontoon, daring the wind to push me over. It was from here that I
watched, a year ago today, as Kiara and her gift disappeared into the
fury of that storm, sinking into the gloom, helpless and alone, while I
looked on. How could I help her? The elements combined that night to
keep us apart; myself, safe on the dock, knowing the futility and
danger of diving in and swimming towards her, while she, my oldest,
truest, wisest friend remained trapped and at the mercy of the
storm.

Two weeks ago I made that rowing trip, just beyond the harbour, and
looked down. It was a glorious day, better suited to enjoyment than
this, and as I stared into the water, I shivered with the knowledge of
what lay beneath me. The tall, wooden main-mast that Kiara had
obsessively polished that summer is still intact, just visible through
the many feet of rippling water between us. Maybe, I mused, if I were
to dive in, I could reach out my hand and touch it. Even more
hauntingly, the sail remains too, flapping silently now against the
undercurrent, as if imitating its time above the waves when it twisted
whitely in the breeze.
When the Kiara B finally gave up fighting the storm and sank to the
seabed, she ended up leaning slightly to port, in the shale. She
appears to be intact, but nobody can be sure. The wreck lies in a
treacherous stretch of water, and no police divers would risk the tides
and weather to find out. This meant, of course, that we were also
unable to retrieve Kiara's body from the boat, an even more painful
stab to the heart of those who loved her.

The night of that tragedy had been preceded by a wonderful evening, and
as I stand on the dock remembering, the scenes replay in my mind; our
group of friends surprising her with a night out on the town, the
laughter, the gifts, and the fateful moment when Kiara told me she had
decided to spend the night onboard, rather than go home. I reminded her
of the predicted storm, but she wouldn't listen. I could have tried
harder, I suppose, but she was so stubborn in her elation. She was too
drunk and happy to listen to reason.
Kiara was blessed. While I was repeating my first year at university,
my brilliant friend had been headhunted by a top law firm and sponsored
to study law, her lifelong dream. She was a high-flyer, someone to whom
everything came with such ease. We often joked that we wished her
genius would rub off on us, but none begrudged her that happiness. We
merely stood on the sidelines of her life and cheered her on. With her
brains, beauty and charm, we all believed she would go far. The
furthest she went, though, was two hundred feet out and down.

The enquiry into the sinking of the Kiara B had ruled it a tragic
accident, nobody to blame. We cursed her for not securing the lines
properly in preparation for the storm, believing the strength of the
wind had torn the boat from her moorings and blown her out to sea. The
court suggested she may have been too intoxicated to think straight,
and thus not fully aware of the dangers that night.
So here I stand, once again, sending out a silent message to my lost
friend - an apology, perhaps? - before slowly turning and making my way
back to the land. I think of my life, emptier without her, but thanking
her for the gifts she gave me through her life, and her death. I think
about her wasted talent, the possibilites that will never be fulfilled,
and the charmed life she would have continued to lead.
Then, as I leave the water behind me and head for my car, I ponder one
more time the endless good fortune that always seemed to follow her,
and as I slip into the driver's seat and slam the door, I begin to
think of MY future, a future of so much possibility, in which I can
shine.
As I drive out of Kiara's shadow and into my own light, I remember the
greasy green slime of the ropes as they slid, one by one, through my
hands and into the angry, churning water. I recall a line from an essay
she wrote once in school, and I think how appropriate her words were,
so young yet so prophetic: "nothing can shine forever."