Psyche logo

Youth, Depression, and the Endless Ocean

Teenage introspection at the edge of England

By Daniel RedfordPublished 24 days ago 6 min read
Like
Youth, Depression, and the Endless Ocean
Photo by chantelle taylor on Unsplash

On a clifftop in Hastings, half a mile from anywhere stands a bench made from the logs of nearby trees, joined with large, rusted bolts. Ten paces south, the cliff gives way to open air; a dead drop onto crumbled, jagged rocks entwined in seaweed, mossy stones, flotsam, jetsam, moist sand. A fence — decaying wood, blunted barbed wire, no more than five feet tall — skirts this precipice. Sparse cirrus clouds wisp gently, framing the midday sun.

​I found this spot when I was seventeen. A family holiday. Nuclear. The weather wasn’t clear. Nor was the air. It was tense, thick with the threat of an argument. In an attempt to escape the storm that was brewing, I trudged along a dusty path, across an empty car park, tyre tracks preserved in mud around the edges, and through a small, metal gate which creaked on old hinges. Here, there, were footprints — made today? yesterday? — which formed a path, hewn by the invisible pull of Nature, guiding people left, right, ever onward.

At a fork, I was pulled right, further from the tent, farther from the deflating air mattress, farther from the canvas windbreakers and faulty two-ring electric hob.

​Long, thin branches of shaded trees, through which this smaller muddier path wound, extend out. A few limbs of these trees hung snapped, breaking, their red and green thorns catching on fabric, wrapping up in long brown hair ruffled by the wind. They gently swayed, tossed about on a stronger force.

Rustling of trees, chirrup of insects, mewing of gulls — all become overshadowed, drowned out by waves cresting, falling, breaking, retreating. The hum of cars and lights, the fizz of electricity, and scraping of metal fades away as if all the trappings of modernity have yet to reach this pocket of space and time.

​The knotted forest stops thirty paces from this bench. The path ramps up a little as it nears the edge, the bench standing proud, old, like a throne on the margins of the country. It looks eastwards, towards Dover. Westwards — Eastbourne.

​Blue.

As above, so below.

​As the autumn chill begins to drown out the summer sun, the shadows start to dance and flicker on the surface of the ocean, adding shades and highlights with a fine brush. A small boat coming into view from just around the cliff sputters its way from the shallows into the deep, its nets readied around the bow and starboard. It’s sporting red and black paint, starting to peel in places, revealing deeper, older layers of its worn coat. A small cabin takes pride of place in the middle of the ship, but it is too far away to ever make out the figure standing at the wheel.

I imagine he’s a haggard seadog, going out to drop his aged nets in the hopes of putting food on his table by giving others food for their table.

​I call him Ishmael.

​It has been this way for centuries in this part of the world. The Stade at Hastings has long been home to many such boats, becoming an ecologically sustainable hub for the largest fleet of beach-launched ships in the United Kingdom. They’re small vessels, no bigger than ten metres in length, provisioned lightly and not that well-suited for long-distance sailing or fishing, but they’ve been a stalwart figure on the pebble beach of Hastings.

​Ishmael steers his vessel away from the Stade. It stutters through the stillness of the afternoon tides, turns westwards, and begins to shrink out of sight, hiding its course behind the mass of rock and grass on the edge of my cliff. Ishmael leaves behind a few lines of crisscrossing waves, leaving his mark on the handiwork of Nature itself.

​I wonder if this Ishmael ever found what he was searching for.

​As the ripples left in the wake of Ishmael’s departure begin to fade out of existence, easing the sea back into its natural ebb and flow, a terrier, like a child’s toy that has come to life, bounds over to me. Its tongue lolls, painting its hot breath onto my bare ankle. Its wet fur, matted with mud at the ends, rubs against my leg. It lets out a contented sigh, staring at me staring at the sea. With a whistle from its owner, it bounds away. Just like Ishmael.

​This is how I remember it in daydreams. The bench may now be gone, fallen into the sea, swept south, bound for the French coast. Or it is damaged, rotted away, feeding the earth as the earth fed it when it was a tree. In the cinema of my imagination, it still stands there, supporting my weight, my bones, as I age. Sometimes, the terrier appears. It sits beside me, his inhales and exhales matching mine. Oftentimes, however, I am on my own, sitting alone, with the cooling breeze and the bountiful, beautiful English Channel stretching out before me, like an artist’s canvas pulled taut over a global frame.

Now and then, through the sea spray, I spy the faintest of brushstrokes. The memories of those lived experiences, those moments of feeling in front of, then a part of, the panorama linger in my mind’s eye, as vivid now as they were back then. As real as they were back then.

​Sitting there, that first and only time, I spent an hour listening to the rhythmic ebb and flow of the tide, the ghostly wind, my breathing; cloud-watching; listening for music on the air, through the boughs of the forest at my back; feeling the warmth of Nature between my toes; tasting the salty sea mist that travelled to my tongue on the breeze up the side of the cliff.

The scratching of a pen on thin paper from an uncontrolled hand works its way amongst the symphony and falls silent. Blotted out by a mind unable to mould answers from questions.

Left, right, behind, before. ​How many had preceded me? How many had seen the same water, stood on the same patch of grass, felt the same thoughts flood through them?

​Echoes through space, through time, faintly heard, vaguely felt. Saxons, Vikings, Norman, fighting for this piece or that piece of land, for the right to settle, to mingle, to mix with the flora, the fauna, to forge a future that twists and turns through the Earth, through the calendar, to this very spot.

All this green growing from pools of red left behind through the centuries.

Echoes of lovers, sat on fine fabric; of pagans and Christians finding their God rising out of the heaving ocean; of artists, poets, musicians, plying their trade, rehearsals with Nature; of tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies watching fleets disappearing past the curvature of the Earth, returning with stories, plunder, trade; of butchers, bakers, candlestick makers on a break, sweat-soaked brows cooling in the evening breeze, seeing the sea set ablaze with the sun’s resplendent golden gaze.

A knot started to unravel itself in my head. Thoughts, wave after wave, surged forward, receded, leapt forward again. Rhythmic. Nature and mind settling into perfect harmony. Thin blades of grass underfoot, vibrant yellows, pinks, reds from the delicate flowers dotting the blankets of greens to the left, the feel of sanded, damp wood beneath me, behind me, supporting, connecting. ​A union.

​Watching the boats go sailing by, leaving momentary white scars on a turquoise canvas, thinking of the souls working aboard, travelling, escaping, returning, a seed of a thought, a harsh reality, began to gestate.

Things were not going as I hoped.

​At that moment, overcome with the raw, tangible, sublime embrace of nature, I closed my eyes. Shut them tight. Relaxed. ​Withdrawn into myself, with the solitude I wanted, was the moment I knew I wasn’t okay, that I had to accept that.

​Solus. Solace.

​There was something going on. I didn’t know the root cause, the specific, all-consuming thing that was starting to take hold like stubborn ivy, suffocating, twisting, but it was there, a dropped stitch in life’s tapestry.

​It’s still here, all these years later, only more defined, better managed.

​What do you believe in when you’re alone, when you don’t believe in yourself?

​Some people look at the towering trees with thick, strong roots, and take some comfort in it, that they and the trees, the grass, the rocks, the mountains, the deep ocean trenches, are all one and the same. Some find this idea of God in a brook, or birdsong, or sunlit vistas; others feel some protection, guidance, and love in the evergreen, ever bountiful and ever-present grace of Nature; some listen out for Pan singing in the still, immutable earth; others extract from it, absorb it, refill with it, recharge themselves — selfish selection through the finest bits, a pick-n-mix bag to binge on.

​Everyone looks for that elusive equilibrium in Nature’s chaotic balance. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to this specific bench on this specific clifftop.

recoverydepressionanxiety
Like

About the Creator

Daniel Redford

Hello, and welcome to my page!

Creative Writer. Masters Degree. PhD English candidate. Bearded. Fan of purple prose. Wordsmith. Wine-drinker. Life-drifter. Hopeless Romantic. Gamer. That about sums it up.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.