We Tossed And We Turned Our Oceans (Phan)

We Tossed And We Turned Our Oceans

I visited the Channel Islands two weeks ago, and the place was so inspiring that I had to write this story. It was really bad, because the second I visited the market hall of St. Helier it started writing itself (which was like five hours after arriving on Jersey) and then this story just kept going in my head no matter where on the island I went. When reading this, you should know that there's a big difference between low tide and high tide in Jersey. Elizabeth Castle, which is mentioned in this story along with the lighthouse La Corbière are both built on rocks that during high tide are completely surrounded by water, but during low tide you can walk there. I had a fun time writing this story, it was nice to wrap up some of my memories from my holiday on Jersey in it like the ice cream or the dog you'll read about. I hope you enjoy. :) x

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The inside of Phil's apartment smells like new furniture and wet paint. The air outside smells salty and fresh. Phil sits on a chair on his balcony, taking one more long drag from the cigarette held tightly between his fingers before extinguishing the glimmering butt in an already full ashtray, his eyes lingering on the view before him. Wind is tousling his black hair. It is low tide right now. Lovers are walking hand in hand on the sand, people are playing with their children and dogs. The sea looks calm so far away from land, untouchable. But only hours from now the tide will come in, and the sand will be covered by water, and waves will crash against the stonewall with the stone steps leading from the beach up to the promenade. Phil prefers when the sea is rough and he doesn't have to watch happy people living their happy lives on this happy beach in front of his apartment. He likes it when the water sloshes against the walls, when the sea becomes destructive.

Destructive.

The one word his parents know to describe him with. He's the hurricane destroying houses on land, he's the tidal wave flooding the shore. He's everything bad and poisonous all at once, and the seagulls circling over his head sound like they agree with him.

His hands are shaking and he has to squint to make out where the ocean begins on the horizon. The pack of cigarettes on the round glass table is empty now. He'll have to get new ones. He'll have to go inside his apartment, the one that smells of new furniture and wet paint, and put on shoes and take his wallet to go downstairs to buy a new packet. He'll have to go inside his apartment. He'll have to go inside.

He doesn't want to go inside.

So he decides to stay seated and clenches his hands to fists as they tremble, and there's a stale taste in his mouth, and he squints at the ocean and waits, waits for the high tide to return and for the ocean to claim the beach in front of Phil's apartment again, claim what is rightfully his.

He waits for hours.

And when he enters his apartment that night, it still smells like new furniture and fresh paint, and all Phil wants to do is take the expensive looking chair and smash it into the expensive looking mirror, and take the shards of the expensive looking mirror and scratch patterns into the expensive looking floor.

Phil doesn't like comparisons, but he likes to compare himself with the ocean, because the ocean is destructive.

And so is he.

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The market hall of St. Helier is always bustling with locals and tourists at this time of the day. There are only approximately one-hundred thousand eight-hundred people living on Jersey, and it seems like all of them decided to visit this place at exactly the same time, a cloudy Monday afternoon. Dan jostles through the crowd, bumps shoulders with some people and apologizes under his breath. Many people working in the booths are waving at him and spare him a smile, and Dan quickly waves back. On a normal day he would stop to talk, but he's already late for work as it is.