Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: Beach (07/04/05)
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TITLE: Driftwood | Previous Challenge Entry
By Eric Horn
07/10/05 -
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The old man loved going to the beach in the winter. Driving up and down the coast in his beat up old car he’d stop at a deserted stretch of coastline, get out of the car and walk. It didn’t matter if it was cold and wet, he loved the peace and quiet, the lack of crowds. The old man would wander up and down the beach, picking out bits of driftwood and anything else that looked interesting. His talent lay in taking old, discarded, ugly junk that no one else wanted and turning it into something useful. Up and down the beach he’d walk, looking at the ocean one minute, picking up something thrown ashore by the waves the next. It was what he did. No job, no friends, no family, his time was his own. Ignored and unwanted by society he spent his time with the dreck unwanted by the sea.
The day started like any other. He drove to a stretch of beach, got out of his car, made his way carefully down the crumbling bluff and began walking along the beach. There was a lot of seaweed thrown up by the recent storm as well as all the usual treasure – driftwood, rubbish, everything. This time there was something else. Poking out through the seaweed was a human arm. The old man stopped and stared, not sure what to do. He realised he had to do something and began pulling the seaweed away in large clumps to reveal a whole body of a young man. Alive or dead? That was the question. It was answered when the young man’s body convulsed. Vomiting seawater and coughing his lungs free of any obstructions the young man strained for air. His breath came in sharp, raspy shakes, slowing to painful shudders.
This was followed by the usual post-traumatic confusion. Stupid questions were asked ("Are you ok?") and help was refused ("I’ll be fine."). What did happen was that the young man was helped to the car by his rescuer, taken home and eventually nursed to health.
The young man, John, and the old man, Colin, were talking a couple of days later over a bowl of hot soup. Looking around the little cottage that Colin called home, John said, "This is exactly what I imagined a friendly old hermit’s place would be like. The only thing missing is a bible."
"What would I need that for?" asked Colin.
"Because you’re just like Jesus," said John.
Colin didn’t know whether to laugh at John or punch him. What was he talking about?
"Look around," said John. "What do you see? Lots of old stuff. Discarded and thrown away, but you’ve taken the time to clean it, fix it, breathe new life into it."
"So?"
"That’s what Jesus did? He took all the unwanted, shunned and hopeless people and sort of breathed new life into them."
Colin thought about his own life, the hurts and disappoints, the gradual withdrawing from anything or anyone else who could hurt him, the lonely, yet peaceful and safe existence he lived.
"I think I’ve kind of worked out things for myself."
"What do you do with all the old stuff you fix up?" asked John. "Do you throw it back into the ocean?"
"Of course not," said Colin. "I use it here or give it away to someone who needs it."
"Exactly," said John. "You don’t give up on it, you give it a second chance."
John didn’t press the conversation any further and Colin was glad of it. He wasn’t comfortable with the discussion and was glad of an excuse to stop talking.
Over the next few days John became well enough to move on. It was quiet after he left, but Colin became reaccustomed to being a hermit.
One day after a long walk on the beach he came home to find a parcel in the mailbox. It was from John and inside was a bible. There was no note, no letter, just the bible. Colin wasn’t sure what to do with it. He tried putting it on the shelves with his other possessions. It looked good there. He tried putting in his jacket pocket. It fit perfectly. He held it in his hand. Not too heavy, not too light. Colin was a practical man. He knew that books were meant for reading. He opened the book and started looking for the parts about Jesus.
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