Jaws Bridge

A souvenir finds its target.

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.

The road to “Jaws Bridge”, Martha’s Vineyard.

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.