Freedom’s a hard hue to hold, so chill out: Wyn Drabble

A recent beach scene sparked memories of surfing and a simpler life for Wyn Drabble. Photo / NZME

Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, writer, public speaker and musician. He is based in Hawke’s Bay.

I think I’ve just seen an image of freedom, of youthful nirvana. No, it had nothing to do with Buddhism but I think it hit the bull’s eye for freedom, relaxation, lack of worries.

It involved two young males (17 to 18 years at a guess), a car, a surfside location, perfect weather, and lunch. Their car was parked about 15 metres from the surf’s edge where, further out, surfers bobbing on boards had heads twisted to spot any incoming waves which might carry them on that joyous natural ride that I remember so well from my teens.

Their car’s sunroof was open. One sat on the roof, his legs dangling into the car’s void, the other stood inside the car with his upper torso protruding from the roof.

Lunch was fish and chips purchased from the local fish and chippery and, because they had a mutual respect for tomato sauce, one had, obviously by agreement, drizzled said condiment in a zigzag fashion across the entire contents of their paper parcel.

If they had known their lunch was being recorded by a newspaper columnist, they might well have placed the opened paper parcel at a more rakish angle on the car’s roof.

Or maybe not.

They responded cheerily to the well wishes of a couple of much older people and their now sandy and salty dog. We were once those boys, yet, burdened as we are by the responsibilities of age, saw nothing but their lack of worry, their freedom. It was refreshing.

Who knows? They could have been Trump admirers or Winston supporters but I feel chances were slim. They might not even have heard of those people!

They could also have been criminals planning their next daring deed, the daylight theft of a deep-fryer, some tarakihi fillets and a carton of tiny pottles of tartare sauce.

Or perhaps they were far from the relaxed vision we imagined but in fact two nervous students about to hit the horror of examinations. This might have been a last taste of freedom before the rigours of NCEA.

They certainly appeared unaware of council rates and were surely better for it. (“Council Rates! What sort of music do they play?”)

And arthritis was surely decades away. (Arthritis! Is he a DJ?”)

We could have – and there’s no way we would have – stepped in and reminded them that their apparent relaxation would not last. In Katherine Mansfield’s short story Her First Ball, a character referred to only (from memory) as a “fat man” steps way out of line and tells the heroine that her youthful looks will not last.

“And those pretty little arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you’ll beat time with such a different kind of fan – a black bony one.”

Of course what he said was true but her first ball was not the occasion to tell her. How dare he! Let the good times roll first.

Nor was it our place to tell them that those taut six-packs might turn to unsightly flab and their tousled windswept hair might one day be styled into a handsome comb-over. Their hatch-roofed car might one day be turned into a walking frame.

So, no. Please let’s stick with that initial image. These were just two young people not yet caught up in the hurly burly of life, the extraordinary hiking of council rates, the inconvenience and pain of arthritis, and for that we thank them and their perfect image of no worries, their reminder of what once was.

Keep chilling for as long as you can, guys. Thanks for the image.