Ruth Theodore

'Overflow' - The hole that leads to the sea

"Fook Photoshop" I said to Leah (impersonating her Huddersfield accent) as she clambered into the back of the camper with a can of Stella and a tripod, slumped herself down next to Kate and screwed up her nose.

"Maybe we could hang the crabs legs out of the window in a bag or something"

So out came a bag and in climbed Fionn with the other camera and the other can of Stella.

"Where's the glass?" asked Kate who had helped me collect (from the 'glass man' on the high street) a pane so large and clean it was hard to keep track of.

I started the engine and ran the checklist though in my head.

'Glass, crab's legs, bath tub, traffic cones, black material, tape, paint, tide timetable, old pram, sleeping bags, still camera, video cameras, spades, map, Stella.'

We headed out of London, stopping every few miles so that Fionn could run ahead with the camera, film us disappearing into the distance, and then wait for us to pick him up and carry on with the journey, down towards the coast, on to the car ferry, and over to the Isle of Purbeck.

Arriving just before dark we spent the night drinking ale and painting the crabs legs whilst Leah insisted on singing us a song she had clearly forgotten.

Eventually we blew out the candles and fidgeted around in our sleeping bags. I was struggling to get the head bit beneath my head without the whole thing twisting.

"Where's the glass?" whispered Kate.

Early the next day we took the road down to the beach and off loaded the check-list on to the sand. Realising we'd never get "all this to all the way over there" in one trip, I went to weigh our options. Almost immediately I came by two life guards in a beach buggy, with nothing urgently heroic to do and a boyish enthusiam for the camera. Rescued, we boarded the buggy and headed for the nudist beach. Choosing our spot, we carefully assembled the cameras, positioned the bath tub and began shovelling sand into orchestrated heaps. But behind us the waves were turning sooner than expected and diving back into the sea.

Blown out of position and losing incentive, we started moving the pieces around as the early moon raised its head, changing the light, and raising the risk, that the lower the tide, the smaller the tub, and the smaller the tub, the larger the legs, and the larger the legs, the bigger the spider, and the bigger the problem concerning the picture.

And the picture was essential.

We sat thirsty and deflated amongst the mole hills. I had been out to prove that there's nothing like the genuine article. That technology effortlessly does a more accurate job of anything I might struggle to create, but that it bores me to death for that same reason. There is humour in a struggle, life in an imperfection, and a bit of imagination will paint over the scratches until you are fooled but never deceived.

"Bollocks".

"Eh ups Ruth, there's still time".

"The light on the water is better over there".

"Come on Darlin', Lets have a rest, get a drink and try again".

I trekked back along the beach to get some take outs and clear my head.

Returning with supplies I could make out their figures flailing frantically, gesturing for me to run. I ran. Leah was already sprinting towards me.

"Its fooking perfect", she panted and pointed excitedly towards a triumph of wonky mole hills on the waters edge, swept up in a tunnel of evening sun. The gestures from behind the cameras became more animated and dropping our provisions I began peeling off layers of sandpaper clothing still wet from the previous attempts.

I took my position in the bath tub and Leah, who had volunteered to brave the cold water with me, took hers, hauling the black material over her head. I heard the opening and shutting of Kate's still camera lens. Then it was over. We had the picture. The one that had been fermenting in my head for six months or more. But this picture was somehow better… less perfect.

Following a victory lap of the Isle of Wight in the tub and several futile attempts to find the glass that had, poetically, been lost in action and so presumably devoured by the sea, we loaded up the old pram and made our way back along the beach.

No-one really spoke.

Exhausted we turned the corner and headed up the small dunes towards the camper.

"Fook Photoshop" I said pushing the old pram up the last stretch of shingle and grinning like an idiot.