Fleetwood · Friday May 6, 2005
A few years ago I was enjoying a holiday in sunny Sicily. I had a Sicilian friend with a flat by the seaside, who showed me around the island. One day I was splashing about in the sea – not swimming because it was far too rough – and I suddenly realised, I was in great danger. The currents were extremely strong, and could easily sweep you out, under, and away to your death. I suddenly realised, this is what you are told about: this is dangerous. I panicked, and struggled to return to the shore.
Remember the story about the Chinese people drowned at Morecambe Bay? This was a similar moment at Fleetwood, which is part of the same coastline. Yes not bad, I thought, quite attractive, but you have to walk such a long way to reach the sea. So I did: across the sand and the numerous pools and streams, taking photographs. After about twenty minutes I noticed there was water behind me where there was previously sand, mused that if necessary I could simply run across the shallow water, because I’m a resourceful kind of guy, and it still didn’t occur to me this was not a good situation to be in. I continued to stroll, looking for interesting configurations of sand, water and colour. Then five minutes later, I was surrounded by water and realised evasive action was necessary: get the hell back to shore. And it took about twenty minutes, wading through water sometimes at knee level, and sometimes at waist level. Had it been deeper I would have been in serious trouble, and there’s no reason to think it wouldn’t have gone deeper. Back on the promenade, I noticed the Danger No Swimming notices.
It’s how these things happen: you’re ignorant about a situation, enter into it innocently and unknowingly, and suddenly realise this is what they mean. And then it’s too late if you are unlucky, or educational, if you are. In 2003 I had a traumatic moment in the Lake District mountains, ascending a short but alarmingly exposed slope, normally quite easy but it was covered with snow like a huge white golf ball. It required ice axe and crampons, I had neither, and one tiny slip in the impacted foot holes and I would have plummeted down the snow covered slopes, almost certainly joining others who have died falling from Swirral Edge, on the mountain called Helvellyn. The following day, I discovered that another person had been so frightened and incapable of going either forward or backward along the narrow and icy path before the really difficult section began, they had to call out the rescue helicopter and lift her off. No one else could get past her, in either direction, because it was too narrow. I’ve not fully recovered from my experience; I can still feel my own distress and the awful, desperate, unavoidable fact that if my foot slipped – and it easily could – that would be my last clear impression before I died. It was wholly random, unannounced, and arbitrary: life carried on for everyone else, and it did not stop for me or even notice the predicament I was in. Which is of course exactly how it is when it really happens and people die every day, both in peaceful and natural circumstances, and in violent situations of every complexion. You know Breughel’s ‘Icarus’ painting? – it’s like that. Icarus is a tiny figure falling into the sea and no one notices his death, within the greater landscape.
I remember war photographer Don Mcullin once say that his experiences had scarred him for the rest of his life, and he would not (could not) ever talk about them. Susan Sontag expands on this subject in her book Regarding The Pain Of Others, which is a profoundly existential topic lying at the heart of photography. It is a constant and irresolvable topic, that it extends human gaze into any and every aspect of our lives and offers us permanent records of pain, suffering, beauty, conflict, joy, hope, suffering, happiness – and death – making us reflect on the morality and humanity of recording it.
Most photography is wholly innocuous, just a pleasurable, satisfying and creative activity. And that’s how it felt when I was wandering happily across the Fleetwood sands. Interesting, that you rarely get an insight into what the photographer is feeling, thinking or experiencing, when you see the photo. That the medium is inherently detached – which is part of its fascination, because the photo both offers something to you, and prevents you from experiencing it. Every photo is therefore an implicit reflection on what it means to feel and experience something, represented in these curious image-abstractions taken from life, these ‘paintings with light’ that simultaneously evoke and deny meaning.
Hello James
I grew up in Fleetwood and often swam in the sea there – keeping well away from the river and its rapid currents. My father took me and some friends out on the sands at low tide to show us the hazard of crossing the first gully on to the higher sandbanks beyond because of the danger of being cut off by the rising tide. The tide started to come in and overtook us as we walked back so that we could see how difficult it was to walk quickly through deepening water. On a later occasion I remember seeing some children who were cut off on the sandbanks, running around in panic as the bank shrunk. This was the Fifties before inshore lifeboats were available and the concerned crowd on the beach watched the lifeboat edging in as the water deepened. A rescue that time fortunately. When my father was a child he saw a local farmer ride his horse out to rescue children trapped on the banks.
Glad you survived your hairy experience!
— John Cartmell · Mar 25, 11:03 PM · John Cartmell">§
Hi John – yes, it’s so very easy to be oblivious to the danger! I survived it, with only some wet clothing and minor damage to my dignity.
— James Lomax · Mar 29, 06:44 PM · James Lomax">§