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Small / faraway


That perspective thing…

The morning felt like I was drowning in a tsunami of corporate headaches.
Swept away by a gale of cross-departmental miscommunication and finger pointing.

And then I realised that the Coast Guards’ rescue helicopter was perhaps not taking part in a drill after all, not in that mad wind we had this morning and that the pedantic meteorologists qualify of “blowy as fuck”.

The windsurfers who launch from the little slip in Salthill seem to have a predilection for “blowy as fuck” weather conditions.

Guaranteed to provide a greater kick. Get the adrenaline pumping.

Twice a rescuer from the chopper over choppy waters was winched down, twice he came back up empty-handed.

I hope it wasn’t one of the windsurfers.

Sure they’re mad eedjits.
Sure they’re only asking for it.
Sure they are just selfish brats wasting valuable time for the rescue services.

Sure they totally remind me of me at their age.

In their twenties. Uncontrollable. Unaccountable. Invincible.
In search of the next buzz. The next rush of adrenaline.
Trying ever harder to feel even more alive.

Never contemplating feeding the Dublin Bay prawn…

These days I long for the rush of slowly slipping into my charentaises, fastening my paisley dressing gown, carefully embedding myself into therecliner… to watch base-jumping videos on Youtube while sipping Redbull.

That perspective thing.

Hope it wasn’t one of those windsurfing eedjits.  


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