Fifty years.
Or perhaps fifty-one.
The BBC
was talking about Jaws
again.
First released
in 1975.
I was too young
to see it
when everyone else did.
Instead,
I ended up
with a pebble.
About ten years later,
just before university,
my family spent
a wonderful holiday
travelling around
the eastern United States.
Boston.
Maine.
Vermont.
New York.
Niagara Falls.
And,
for just a few hours,
somewhere
near the beginning,
Martha’s Vineyard.
The ferry timetable
left little room
for sightseeing.
But there was
one place
I wanted to see.
Jaws Bridge.
One of the famous scenes
had been filmed there.
I seem to remember
a group of boys
in a boat.
Then it all goes wrong.
Then
my own story
began.
Without thinking,
I ran there
barefoot.
It was
a hot day.
Running barefoot
suddenly
seemed
much less clever.
I reached
the bridge.
Only time
for one souvenir.
A good-sized pebble.
By the time
I got back,
carrying
this particularly
handsome specimen,
the blisters
on my feet
were considerably larger
than the souvenir itself.
It wasn’t
the best start
to the holiday.
Fortunately,
most of the rest
was spent
in a car.
Before leaving,
we stopped
at one of those
seaside gift shops.
I bought
a fishing net
and two small paintings
of sailing boats.
No Athena posters
for me
at university.
Apparently,
I was aiming
for
“nautical undergraduate.”
Far more sophisticated.
Back in England,
I arranged everything
in my room.
The paintings
were attached
to the wall
with Blu Tack,
the only thing
the university allowed.
The fishing net
was draped
above them.
And the pebble...
The pebble
was placed
on top
of the light
above the sink,
where it held
part of the net
in place.
It looked
rather good.
For a while.
One evening,
I noticed
one of the paintings
beginning
to slide.
I reached for it.
Too late.
The painting
fell.
It caught
the fishing net.
The net
pulled
the pebble.
The pebble
fell
from the light.
And landed,
with perfect accuracy,
right through
the sink.
A pebble,
collected
from the location
of one famous disaster,
had travelled
around
one corner
of America,
then
four thousand miles
home,
to create
one of its own.
Perhaps
that’s what
souvenirs do.
They don’t just
remind us
of places.
Sometimes,
they continue
the story.
Looking back,
I probably
should have bought
just a sticker.
P.S.
As you scroll down,
the pebble rises.
Scroll back up
and it falls.
Next time,
I’ll try a rocket.