Beach Landing
As I believe I said once before, the black beaches of Iceland can make danger seem imminent. The black boulders are capable of having a sullen expression about them. Yet in sunshine the scene is a sparkling delight and even the boulders smile.
Jack Oakley and I were there on a photoshoot for the Kodak Calendar. Having landed at Reykjavik and rescued our gear and personal luggage from an entirely unrelated tour bus (another story) I decided it would be wise to do an aerial survey of the scene. We climbed aboard a delicate little Piper aircraft, possibly rubbing our hands in gleeful anticipation. All was right in this best of possible worlds.
But I found you should never count your chickens before you know where you’re going to land. We told the pilot we wanted to land near a beach. Near a beach, mind you. Just to get the feel of the place. He gave us an understanding smile and we took off. Five minutes later he pointed down to a long, thin, black beach edged by a cliff. He said he would land there.
It looked just about wide enough for a lawnmower. We thought he was winding us up. He was not. He went down. And of course the width of the beach increased considerably. But just as the wheels were about to hit the wet sand he seemed to entertain second thoughts and banged open the throttle. We surged and curved sickeningly away over the sea.
‘I’ll try that again,’ said the pilot.
Jack leaned forward and tapped his shoulder. ‘It really isn’t that important,’ he said. The pilot shrugged and said he often landed there as an air ambulance and although it was tricky it was possible. I joined Jack and said no, no, really, it didn’t really matter, really. I tried to swallow and failed. We were circling and lining up for the beach. We went lower. We cringed in our seats. Then we hit. We bounced from what felt like an explosion. We were about ten feet up.
Having bounced, the plane came down again gently and rolled to a stop.
A happy group of children ran from nowhere and watched us unstick ourselves from our seats and climb down. My knees were in shock. The children pestered the pilot to let them get in and sit in his seat. I think the only reason he let them do it was to give him something to do and steady his nerves. When the demonstration ended he walked back to the tail and, rather too carefully for my liking, crouched and examined the tailwheel.
Jack and I walked the length of the beach twice, pretending to make detailed observations of the surroundings. What we were actually doing was delaying the take-off for as long as possible.
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Text and illustration ©Paul Wigmore 2010
The Arms of Morpheus
I am a heavy sleeper. In the mornings, that is. Very pleasant. But it does give rise to unintended consequences such as missed appointments with the person who visits us to cut my toenails.
I was having one of these very deep and lovely sleeps one morning and woke to see a bearded man sitting on the bed next to mine and smiling broadly. This was disturbing on two counts; first, I have only one bed in my room. Second, this chap was a stranger.
But within seconds all was clear. I was not in my own room. I was in a West Midlands hotel and, for reasons I cannot remember, I was sharing the room with the Botanist David Bellamy, OBE. And having told you that I’d better tell you why or you'll be worrying. A magazine had commissioned me to take photographs of a ballet rehearsal in progress and David was there because the ballet was based on his book, The Queen’s Hidden Garden. Sir Malcolm Williamson was composing the music and, the following week, I drove down to his home and did a portrait.
Waking with a fright seems to be a habit of mine. It was entirely my own fault when it happened on board ship. I was sailing home from India on the SS Circassia. I discovered that
one could relax very comfortably indeed up on the open deck by sitting on the ship’s rail and leaning back against a stanchion and sideways against the ship’s hull. With the lifejacket as a pillow it was possible to slide the bottom forward slightly, lean back and find perfect bliss. Head and shoulder were prevented from falling overboard, as seen in the illustration. From the thighs down, however, there was no protection; they could slip sideways and turn one into a brief mention in the local paper. One evening I made the mistake of closing my eyes as the sun was setting over the Red Sea. When I woke it was dead of night. With the Red Sea some sixty feet below me, that was not to my taste.
The other on-board experience was not caused by any such stupidity and for that reason was more worrying. This time I was travelling in the opposite direction and on my way to some unknown RAF station in India. I had found a nice corner on the open deck where, in my sleeping-bag, I could comfortably sleep for the night. Something like sixty other men had chosen the same option. By late evening they were scattered everywhere, snoring happily. I slid down into my sleeping bag and went to sleep.
I woke in the morning to a glorious day of cloudless azure sky and a gentle breeze. It had been a wonderful sleep and I was ready for anything, especially the bacon and eggs. Then I sat up. What I discovered was just beyond reason: I was at the opposite end of the deck.
I must have sleep-walked my way there, stepping with astonishing precision between sleeping bodies. How I had avoided them I shall never know.
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Text and illustration ©Paul Wigmore 2010
Crimes and questions
I still blush to think of my one appalling childhood crime. Mind you, I was never criminally inclined. I didn’t have the nerve for it. My brother tried very hard to guide me into evil ways but gave it up. I was too keen on drawing things. And, oddly enough, it was this passion for scribbling that led me to my major crime.
The Ramsgate aunts did once have reasonable grounds for doubting my total innocence. Staying with them one summer I was alone in their sitting room and enjoying myself at the family gramophone. It was the sort you had to wind up in order to make the turntable turn. My winding technique was brisk. I loved the smoothness of the feeling as the spring became tighter and tighter. I wondered just how tightly-wound I could make it. It decided to let me know the answer in an unkind way. The clutch gave way, sending the ebony handle flying backwards and cracking the back of my hand very smartly indeed. I remember the comforting arms of various aunts wrapped round me but got the distinct impression that I was not popular.
My father’s surprise entry into in my bedroom late one night ended in a well-remembered chat about the ways of the Devil, including the warning never to let a man put his hand on my knees. The next morning I examined my knees. They looked pretty much like all the other boys' knees. I could find nothing interesting about them. If anyone wanted to put their hand on them, they were welcome. The chat contained nothing by way of explanation. He would have been too deeply embarrassed.
One bit of terrorism I did find most attractive. Walking home from school one afternoon with a friend hesaid, 'Y'know the old house? Ivy and stuff? I was thinking - the windows. We could smash one. You and me - see who can smash it first!'
We turned from School Lane into Police Station Lane, gave the constable standing on the steps of the big red-brick building a cautious glance and crossed the main road to our usual short cut. It took us past the very old and derelict house. We picked up one stone each.
'Bags I go first!' he said, threw his stone and missed. I threw mine, and scored. We looked at each other. He grinned.
'What about it - smash the lot?'
I reminded him that we were in almost full view of the Police station. He shrugged, and smashed another window. We carried on until six sets of four jagged, gaping black holes stared back at us. The delight in doing something illegal gripped me. But then the scariness took hold. Supposing the police had spotted us? Would there be a knock at our front door? But the police seemed either to know nothing of it or were sympathetically inclined.
My brother and I had been given peashooters. He felt they had potential for something dangerous and said I should join him. I didn’t need persuasion. It did have a certain attraction. At the busy corner of our road and the main road we stood, peashooters hidden and a couple of dried peas on our tongues. An approaching red sports car attracted him. ‘Ready?’ he hissed.
‘Yes.’
‘Now!’
We shot a volley and saw one pea bounce off the driver's door. But the car was slowing and stopping. The driver was getting out and looking our way.
‘Run!’ yelled my brother.
We burst through our back gate and stood, waiting for Nemesis. But Nemesis, like the police, was not interested.
I reached my criminal nadir in our sitting room. My parents were out. I had been given a fountain pen. No other boy in my class at school had a fountain pen. One particular thing about it delighted me. If I let the nib touch the paper very lightly it produced the smallest possible dot. I did dotty drawings in imitation of the dotty newspaper photos.
I was standing at the deep windowsill and idly going through the contents of a flamboyant chocolate-and-gold biscuit tin where the family snapshots were kept. Mostly they were picnic groups and holiday pictures. Always, the snaps were of people, smiling at the camera. I thought how comical it would be, how my parents would laugh, if I did something that only I and my fountain pen could do. I spent a happy hour.
And that is why our snapshots now show family and friends still smiling but cross-eyed.
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And now for something completely different. I’m grateful to one of my readers who suggests that others might like some clarification of terms I used in ‘Wetting my pants’, Parts 1 and 2. She also suggests a comment on ‘photoshoots’ and their ranking in the importance of things generally. Here are some quick answers.
A ‘transparency’ is a photograph on colour film. But the term is widely used (as well as ‘slide’) to describe one frame of this film mounted in thin cardboard. The most popular kind is 2in (5cm) square, holding one 35mm transparency.
A ‘lightbox’ is the picture-editor's device. It is simply a wood or metal box containing a light source and a top surface of translucent glass. Transparencies laid on the glass may then be examined, usually through a magnifying glass, by means of the light from below.
Detailed descriptions of professional ‘photoshoots’ can, to the bystander, sound overblown. The making of photographs by professionals is an expensive and highly critical undertaking. In all commercial and educational fields, much can depend on the results being exactly right for purpose. The job is fraught with hazards that jeopardise success and this does tempt the diarist to make the most of the dramas, small and large.
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Text and illustration ©Paul Wigmore 2010