There will be no Netflix and wine gums for me tonight. Only sea water and zemblanity.
As the day ticks down to what increasingly feels like some kind of staged denouement to these bizarre and unlikely seven days on Wimbufushi, I try my level best to remain calm. I do this by lying in the sun a lot, with a mindfulness app playing on my iPhone, through my EarPods.
I had to choose a mindfulness session that didn’t include any gentle, relaxing music in it, because that would just remind me of the plinky plonky and Suha’s massage from hell. Instead, I elected to listen to a nice man telling me all about how my mind is like the blue sky above my head, which should be as free of clouds as possible. An uncluttered, mindful brain is a happy one, he takes great pleasure in telling me.
From the sound of him, this is not a chap who has ever had a run-in with zemblanity.
He does sound like a chap who has had a run-in with millions of pounds thanks to the popularity of his mindfulness app, so it’s no wonder he sounds so bloody content.
However, the app just about keeps me calm for the whole of the afternoon, so I guess he’s earned my contribution to his vast profit margins.
When we get to five o’clock, however, as Cara busies herself packing all the essentials for our trip into her voluminous beach bag, I can feel the tension start to rise again.
‘Do you need anything else?’ she asks, popping a pair of her shorts into the bag. ‘I’ve put in a towel for you, and another t-shirt.’ Cara sounds excited and upbeat. She’s only about an hour or so away from swimming between beautiful coral reefs at twilight, and she knows it.
‘No. I’m sure that’s all fine,’ I reply, trying to look as enthused as she obviously feels.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You look like someone about to go to the gallows.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I guess I’m just a bit nervous about the snorkelling. Deep water in the dark isn’t something I’ve faced before.’
This is not altogether untrue.
I’ve seen movies. I know what kind of stuff lurks in deep, dark water. Stuff with teeth and tentacles, that’s what.
‘Ah. It’ll be fine. This is snorkelling for people of all ages. I doubt we’ll actually be going anywhere that isn’t completely safe and easy to get around. We’re not going to get into any trouble.’
In a week full of mishaps, bad timing and hideous mistakes, this comment will prove to be the most inaccurate of them all . . .
But I don’t know that right now. Hence why I’m actually able to manage a genuine smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Cara gently pats me on the arm. ‘Just think about that champagne and the food. That’ll get you through it.’
Normally I’d agree with her completely, but I don’t feel hungry at all . . . for some reason.
When we leave the water bungalow I do so with a heartfelt look back at the widescreen TV. This tells you just how much I want to stay here and watch Netflix. I should look at widescreen TVs with horror, given what happened between me and one a couple of days ago, but instead the look I give it is wistful. I could probably get all the way through a whole packet of wine gums watching season four of The Crown.
But instead of Olivia Colman in a tiara, I have Cara in a bikini. It’s testament to my stress levels about tonight that I would actually like to watch the former more than the latter.
I don’t spend the whole walk across the island to the jetty looking for signs of blond hair. I don’t want to make it look too obvious to my girlfriend that I’m worried we might see Amy.
Cara looks entirely unconcerned. Her attention is firmly fixed on the excitement of looking at clown fish as the sun sets behind her. Let’s hope she can retain at least some of that enthusiasm when she sees my ex-wife.
There’s no sign of Amy and Ray as we hit the wide jetty that leads down to where a large catamaran is moored, coloured in the same white paint and blue stripe as the Wimbufushi speedboat. The catamaran has a large open section at the rear, full of comfy-looking seats, and a cabin in front of that where I assume all the driving goes on.
There’s a line of people waiting to jump aboard, but I don’t see them in the queue either.
A bloom of hope springs into life in the depths of my chest.
Maybe . . . just maybe, I’m going to get lucky here.
My assumptions over the continuing zemblanity that mars my life may have been in error!
After all, here we are, now in the line for the catamaran, and there really is absolutely no sign of Amy or Ray. I look behind me and can’t see them walking towards us. I study the line ahead of us closely, and they are definitely not there either.
Wow.
I wonder what’s stopped them coming on the trip? Maybe they’ve got into a huge argument about something and don’t want to spend time together out on the ocean?
A very small, petty part of me takes pleasure in the prospect of this.
Strangely, though, I’m not pleased at the idea of an argument between them making Amy upset, but rather that it might knock that smug smile off good old Ray’s face.
Amy was – how do I say this? – quite nice the other night on the beach. For the first time in years we had a decent adult conversation, all thanks to that dugong. It brought back memories of the person she used to be – which is of course what led to that stupid kiss. I deeply regret doing that, but I don’t regret seeing a side of my ex-wife I haven’t for a very long time. The intelligent, thoughtful side, that always played counterpoint to my impulsiveness. Her being that way softened my anger towards her a bit, I can’t deny it. Enough for me to be unhappy at the idea of her getting into an argument with her partner, anyway.
Ray, on the other hand: fuck that guy. Seriously.
I’m still not entirely sure he wasn’t moving in on my wife when I was still married to her, despite what she told me on the beach the other night, and I don’t trust that warm, convincing smile as far as I could throw it. Nobody can be that upstanding. It’d give you chronic backache in no time at all. I’m also deeply jealous of him – as has been readily established – so I have double cause to wish him ill. And the idea of him getting all upset and bothered by an argument with Amy fills me with gross and petty pleasure.
Regardless of the reason, the two of them do not appear to be coming on this snorkelling trip, and that makes me very happy. Maybe I can relax and enjoy a little paddling around in the evening light, with Cara by my side, looking down at all the fish and coral.
Azim and a couple of the other Wimbufushi staff are now allowing us to board the catamaran, letting us know that there will be a safety briefing once we are on board. It looks like there are about twenty or so of us on this trip, which is a decent amount for an island with such a small amount of accommodation.
I give Azim a sheepish hello as we pass him. I haven’t forgotten about the damage I did to his lovely TV, and I doubt he has either. Not that he shows that in any way, as I receive just as broad and welcoming a smile as anyone else.
I look back one more time at the few people behind us in the queue, and there is still no sign of Amy and Ray.
Brilliant!
I have to roll an internal set of eyes over my silly obsession with zemblanity.
Of course there is no malevolent spirit hanging over me, making my life miserable. Of course I am not cursed with the opposite of whatever serendipity actually is. I am an ordinary man in an ordinary world, where things just happen from time to time that you really wish hadn’t.
There’s no such thing as zemblanity – and the proof of that is when I step aboard the catamaran, there is no sign of Ray or Amy among the passengers. They are not on the boat. Everything is okay. I don’t have to—
‘So you say it produces fifty horsepower, even though it’s a hybrid? That’s amazing! What knots are you getting? Fifteen?’
*Footsteps*
A knock at the door.
I swing the door wide open.
Zemblanity �
� for some reason dressed in chef’s whites and carrying a machine gun – stands there with a stupid grin on its face.
‘Hi, Joel!’ it says in the cheeriest of voices. ‘I certainly do exist! And here I am, on your doorstep to fucking prove it!’
From a pocket in the chef’s whites it produces a party blower, puts it to its lips and blows. The noise the blower produces is a sound half like a dugong burping and half like a wail of despair.
I look around to see Ray emerging from the catamaran’s forward cabin, with both the captain and Amy in tow. The captain looks highly animated by the conversation he’s having with a man wearing a bright green shirt covered in fucking coconuts. Amy looks less enthralled.
‘Yes! I would say we hit fifteen knots on a regular basis!’ the captain replies to Ray, extremely happy that someone has taken such a huge interest in the way his boat runs.
‘That’s fantastic!’ Ray replies. ‘I never would have thought a hybrid could achieve that kind of speed at such a constant rate!’
Much like I would never have thought that life could screw me over at such a constant rate, I suppose.
There’s part of me that should want to run and hide before Ray or Amy actually sees me, but that part of me has had quite enough of all this bullshit, thank you very much, and prefers to let things play out naturally.
Therefore I just grimace and wave at the both of them when they spot me standing close to the cabin’s entrance.
‘Oh! Hello there, Joel!’ Ray says in that irritatingly confident manner of his.
‘Ray,’ I reply, with a languid nod of the head.
Now that zemblanity has once again deposited the contents of its bowels all over my head, I appear to have swum into a calm lagoon of acceptance.
There’s almost something quite freeing about the secure knowledge that the next few hours of your life are going to suck. It takes away the fear of expectation.
‘Hi, Joel,’ Amy then says, and her tone of voice is actually quite pleasant.
I feel quite happy to return it in kind. ‘Hi, Amy. I hope you’re well.’
From beside me, I hear Cara huff.
It is a huff that conveys much. First off, it’s all about the displeasure of seeing Amy. There’s no noticeable evidence that she is upset at seeing Ray, though. Then, on top of that, is the displeasure of hearing me being civil to Amy. This is almost a greater aspect of the huff than the first part. Thirdly, and lastly, there is an element of disbelief around the edges of the huff, about how we have all been once again thrown together this way.
I should have sat Cara down and had a nice long chat with her about Mr Zemblanity and his party blower. That would have cleared it up.
My girlfriend says nothing else to her favourite couple in the world, and instead marches off towards the back of the catamaran where there are still a couple of spare seats.
I look down at the floor. This is mainly to avoid Ray and Amy’s immediate reactions, before they’ve had time to get control of their faces again.
‘Do excuse me,’ I say in the tones of one who has finally reached acceptance of his lot in life, and is just going through the motions from now on.
I head over to where Cara is sat, with her beach bag on her lap and a look of gold-plated chagrin on her face.
‘Did you know they were going to be here?’ she asks me, as I slowly deposit myself next to her.
For a moment, I consider telling her all about the maniac in the chef’s whites, but decide against it, as I don’t want her calling the men in equally white coats.
‘No. No idea,’ I reply.
Cara punches her hand down on to the bag. ‘Every bloody thing we do . . . she’s there. Everywhere we fucking go . . . she’s there too.’
‘Yep.’
‘I really, really hate that bitch!’
‘Yeah. I get that.’
Cara stares at me. ‘Why aren’t you angrier about this? This trip is going to be ruined now!’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m tired, Cara. Too damn tired.’
‘For God’s sake, Joel!’
I turn a little in my seat and put my hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. The second I do this, I am transported back to the first boat trip we took on this holiday, when we realised Amy and Ray were coming to Wimbufushi as well. Cara squeezed my leg in the same sympathetic manner back then.
‘Look, I know it sucks,’ I tell her. ‘But let’s try to make the best of it.’
‘I don’t want to make the best of it!’
‘I know. But what choice do we have?’
Cara goes to respond again, but the truth in my words is undeniable. The catamaran has left the jetty, so we are committed to staying on board now. We can either thrash about and complain, or just accept our fate.
The pout Cara produces at this moment would sell for millions in a perfume advert. ‘The champagne had better be bloody good,’ she eventually mutters.
It might well be, baby . . . but it won’t be anywhere near as good as the wine gums.
It takes the catamaran fifteen minutes to putter slowly out to the section of reef we’re going to be snorkelling around. As it does, the sun starts to get lower in the sky, and a cheerful young man called Harry gives us our safety briefing. I’m sure Harry has a much more interesting Maldivian name, but this is probably a case of having things dumbed down for us.
If I go away from this holiday with one thought (aside from all of the stuff concerning my ex-wife, of course) it will be that I don’t feel like I’ve really visited ‘the Maldives’ at all. I have no idea about the country’s culture or people, even after having been here for a whole week. There’s something I find undeniably sad about that.
When the briefing is over, Harry and his two work colleagues hand out the snorkelling equipment. I can see that Ray has gone back into the catamaran’s cabin to continue his conversation with the captain. This leaves Amy sat on her own close by, fiddling with the strap on her flippers. She looks a little lost, sitting there all by herself.
Stop it.
She doesn’t deserve that.
The catamaran then comes to a halt in a patch of deep blue water that looks much like any other, except when you lean over the side, you can see that just below you is a forest of coral, far larger and more elaborate than the ones reachable from the beach on Wimbufushi.
Following Harry’s instructions, we all pop on our flippers and snorkels. We are also offered the opportunity to use pool noodles to keep us afloat. I’m a pretty decent swimmer, though, so I turn this down, as does Cara.
‘So, everyone!’ Harry says, stood at the back of the catamaran where a wide set of steps leads down on to a small deck area that’s mere inches above the water. ‘We will all now drop into the water, and then I will take you on a tour of the reef, across the shallow section, and out into the deeper water after that.’ He holds up a hand. ‘And remind me what the hand signal is for if you get into any trouble?’
We all dutifully raise our hands and put our fingers on the tops of our heads, just like Harry taught us during the briefing. There were other hand signals as well, but this one was the most important, so it’s no wonder he wants to make sure we all know it.
‘Well done!’ he says. ‘Now follow me!’
And with that, Harry jumps off the side of the catamaran.
He is then followed by the rest of us, and I am instantly reminded of sheep going into the dip. There’s an awful lot of flailing arms, legs and pool noodles going on, and I can’t help but think that the local fish population must dread this time of the week. You would too, if your otherwise placid day was interrupted by a herd of enormous floundering monstrosities poking you with their brightly coloured tubes of foam plastic.
Cara and I take ourselves off slightly to one side, to make sure we’re not at the centre of the heaving mass. I also notice that Ray and Amy have done the same on the other side of the bubbling cauldron of body parts. Ray is, of course, a swimmer par excellence. I can see th
at from the way he moves with utter confidence. Flippers are not things that lend themselves to personal confidence, unless you’re extremely comfortable using them. Amy is paddling in one position, while Ray darts in and out of the general area, already looking at the coral underneath him like he’s been doing it for years.
Harry gets everyone’s attention, and the flailing and thrashing calms down a bit. ‘We’re going to follow a very specific route,’ he tells us. ‘Please don’t deviate from it. The coral around here is very fragile, and we must be sure to keep to the route marked out so we don’t disturb it.’
When he starts to swim away, Cara and I hang back a little, watching where Ray and Amy are. Not a word passes between us while we do this, but it’s clear that we both have the same train of thought going on.
Ray, being Ray, is right at the front of the line of flapping tourists, with Amy in close company. I have to wonder whether she’s okay with that. Amy never used to be someone who liked to rush things. She’s always been the methodical, hang-back-and-appraise-the-situation type. Being up front is not something that comes naturally to her.
Still, at least Ray’s enthusiasm makes it easy for Cara and me to hang back. We don’t quite bring up the rear – our friends from the karaoke session, Trevor and Sandra, are doing that. All those cigarettes haven’t done much for their cardiovascular health, and that means that swimming fast in flippers is quite beyond them. Trevor is gasping for air like a floundering haddock, and Sandra’s face is a picture – a picture of Dante’s Inferno painted by a psychopath. You have to wonder why they wanted to come on a snorkelling trip at all.
Still, they make me look good by comparison, which is nice.
For the next few minutes we all happily trawl along behind Harry as he points out some of the weird, wonderful and beautiful aquatic sights beneath us. The sun is still high enough in the sky to provide us with all the light we need. If anything, the golden tones of the slowly lowering sun make everything look even more gorgeous.
The coral out here is larger and more colourful than the stuff close to the island, and my breath is quite taken away by some of their graceful shapes and patterns. The fish are equally lovely to look at. A collection of multi-coloured little darting bodies that pop in and out of the corals at will.
You Again? Page 24
