for Takis

Water

– H₂O –

in reverse reads

O₂H,

a combination of

Jesus Christ,

the Second Person of the Trinity (O₂),

and the Holy Spirit

or breath (H)

I think about this

as I cut through

the water

on this our last morning

on Ithaca

The water is so still

that the morning pollen

is visible

– golden balls of fluff

sitting on the surface –

I head for the white buoy

on the left

then the orange

followed by three yellow

and one that is neither

orange nor yellow

but both

This is my length

my 50-metre swimming pool

my daily rule

Breaststroke

– if you have been taught properly –

is a mixture of prayer

work and

faith

You stretch out your arms

and turn your hands upwards

in prayer

You rotate your hands

in order to pull back

with strength

And your feet

have no solid base

they push against nothingness

they strike

into the void

Prayer, work and faith

In this watery version

of reality

all lines become crooked

wiggly

– the masts of the yachts

reflected in the water,

the ropes of the buoys,

the ripples of the waves –

there is no such thing

as a straight line,

which makes a mockery

of our passion

for laying claim

The buoys are like jack-in-the-boxes

on their springs

each coil

an individual ripple

like the ones

I created

when I entered the sea

and made the sign of the cross

on the water’s surface

sending ripples outwards

an arc of delight

a shiver on the surface

of reality

I swim up and down

I can do no more than this

Sometimes the sea is agitated

like the last two days

troubled

seemingly it has a surfeit

of us

it does not want us

in it

I can do nothing about

these circumstances

that turn against us

except hope

and swim

(prayer, work and faith)

until I crunch my knees

– suddenly all physical –

in the vicinity of

the beach

Jonathan Dunne, 1 July 2022

We swam to the little beach

where the cold water

was like

petrol on the surface

or someone had

dropped a slush puppie

We decided to swim

across the opening of the bay

despite the danger of

speedboats

yachts

catamarans

Tsveta panicked

because of a jellyfish

hanging in midwater

observing us from

a floor or two

below the surface

The water where it

became dark blue

was soft and warm

like a baby’s blanket

– not at all

the feared monster –

soft rolls of water

lapping against our faces

occasionally slapping my cheek

spitting in my ear

but only when I looked around

Eyes front,

they seemed to be telling me

A catamaran had entered

the bay

a sporty speedboat

made a pretence of

doing the same

only to exit just as quickly

A tease perhaps of fate

a distraction

a nick in the skin

of faith

The fact is

not a single boat

endangered our crossing,

unusually so in a bay

where speedboats

can come and go

every two minutes

What helped us across, I think,

was the reference of the beach

– Takis’ hut,

the end of the sunbeds,

the end of the beach,

only the rocks left

that line of primitive writing

that runs all around

this island of Ithaca

where we have arrived

and left again

Familiar landmarks

were staging posts

(there is no halfway point

and, even if there were,

it would have moved

by the time you got

to it

in this fluid

version of reality)

We aimed for the rocks

– the horse (or lion),

the kiss,

the wombs with a cross

and more writing

in them –

the rocks did not move,

only the water went

from dark blue

to turquoise green

to lemony

and I realised

I felt no fear

– no fear of the deep,

so deep you could not

see the bottom,

the bottom – like stabilisers,

like a father’s steadying hand –

had been removed

and God laughed

– I heard him –

lighting for us

a row of scintillating candles

pinpricks of light

on the sea’s surface

that were mirrored

from where we had come

Jonathan Dunne, 27 June 2022