It’s been a spate of clear days with colourful sunsets. The starlings won’t be around for much longer, so there’s an element of making the most of the displays before they stop for the warm seasons. It was so much stiller and warmer this time. I sat on the beach against the wall as the sun went down in its premature misty way in a blaze of neon red.
The gathering around the pier consisted of all sorts. Someone was playing jazz guitar on the promenade. Someone was playing music from a speaker on the beach itself. The man and woman next to me smoked a pungent joint and talked of upholstery. I saw the moment the first long swirl of starlings arrived. It was soon joined by more that were flung in like confetti.
The tide was on its way out so there were no threatening high waves being tossed up. A girl talked to her stylish smoking friend about how her brain felt like it was on overdrive at the moment, processing everything super quickly. As if to demonstrate her agitated mental state, she soon suggested they move on.
There were some dorky French teenagers throwing stones into the sea, trying to hit a pink buoy. I watched their game with some investment. I would’ve liked to join in. That buoy was the perfect distance away from the shore for such a game. I wondered if there was a danger they would hit the buoy and the stone would bounce back at them. Maybe the ultimate goal, the 147, the 9-darter, would be to hit the buoy and then catch it on the rebound.
The collective gait of the teenagers was so endearingly awkward. A game like this is on the edge of maybe feeling too childish. A couple of them only joined in sporadically. One of them caught my attention in particular. He had nascent facial hair, long sideburns, what could only be described as a “mop” of greasy hair. He wore jeans (they all wore jeans) and an oversized leather jacket. He radiated an overwhelming pathos: absolutely barraged by hormones, dealing with this holiday situation, not knowing what anything means anymore, what is cool, what might get him mocked by those he calls his friends. I wonder if any of them registered the starlings. At one point I worried actually that they might make the birds the targets of their stones. But they never got close enough.
I had a walk along the pier, took a few token pictures and videos, fearing I would drop my phone. The wind was mild today though. I noticed that the starlings were more diffuse than the last time when the wind had been fierce. Maybe this means they respond to the wind as they flock together; they’re driven into a more cohesive hive mind by the outside force of the wind. When left to their own devices, they wander off by themselves?
I’d been thinking about her, about absences, about loneliness to some extent – because it is often a solitary journey, this sunset starling walk. In the winter of 2020/21 I did this walk a lot when I wasn’t seeing anyone at all for months on end and it was a peaceful practice. I’m not so alone now but it still often has an element of melancholy-adjacency.
I was walking past the old pier. The sand line was just about being revealed by the retreating tide. There was a girl writing in a notebook. It turned out this was my friend Scarlett, so I said goodbye to Amy and sat and talked to her for a bit until the light faded and it started to get chilly.