Del da Foster has thrown in the towel. The eternal optimist has crumbled and the falling debris will send ripples and then surges of terror throughout the caravan.
“May-bee - just mabee - there ain’t no ‘Wounded Gull’? Huh? Didyer every think of that?” slurred Del at Jimmy Bodean and Harold Hobart Hellybutt, who had been out shopping and searching aimlessly for the said ‘Gull’.
“Woah - Daddy-O!” yelled Bodean in disbelief, “You can’t say that!”.
Hellybutt picks up an empty bottle of whiskey, which has been rolling on the floor and has stopped against Del’s sweating head.
“Shee-it boy! You been moonshining up a goddamn storm!” Hellybutt tisks and sniffs the bottle.
“Ha Ha, Ho Ho. And there sure as hell ain’t no ‘magical carpet whirly ship caravan story to save the world’ Helly-butt! You stupid IDIOTS!” all out grief stricken laughter from a prostrated Del.
Apart from the drooling and regurgitation swooning up from the grounded Del, his words have cut the other two deeply. They sit and listen. Then they too turn to the bottle and the night turns into a journey of the purest self-loathing. Fleetwood Mac plays on and the darkest thoughts become all consuming inside the little flat in Capbreton.
Drip. Drip. Drippity. Then Bodean realises that he is awake. Lying half-outside the front door in fact. And a light rain is wetting his forehead. Instinct tells him to go down to the water. And there - through the haze of a wooden head - it is. The mammoth power of the ocean is one and the same with the wind and thundering clouds. At the crux of this whirring system objects are spun about. Wilting down, twisting and speeding towards the earth is the icarus of his eye. Seagulls, ganets, albatross, hooded plovers, the odd alarmingly large sea eagle, shags, even emperor penguins (God above only knows) are falling from the sky and are terminally wounded. As sad as this makes Bodean, he is equally overcome with joy. And he begins to take photograph after perfect photograph.
Then Hellybutt, upon hearing his comrade’s shouts, runs down to the beach. And what is this? The shore break is singing like a clinking ginger ale factory. There is a hundred-million bottles washed upon the shore. Sheer delight as he scoops up the bottles - green, brown, clear and blue, all kinds! - and then the popping corks reveal tales - beautiful stories about loving and fighting, moving on and staying put, laughter and sorrow.
Del stands further back and puts his palms out to feel the rain. He wonders if he could try his hand at taxidermy and also what the
street value of antique bottles is.
