Natalie. San Carlos Water

Pieces of flotsam and jetsam floated on the early evening tide. Turning this way and that, always in motion. Never still, each bit jostling with the other for a foothold on the sand, being denied by the rolling water. Little bits of detritus in the ocean. In time, all would be land born and still, stranded for awhile till the next high tide.

On a large rock something slowly smouldered, gentle orange flames framed by the setting sun. A sepia photograph of a past event. By a sheltered pool, more fire slowly flickered before petering out, forever. Extinguished by a gentle spring breeze that blew in from nowhere, adding to this once perfect scene, now disturbed by another event.

Several people had rushed to the beach, after seeing it happen. They pointed and talked, their attention drawn to three ruined objects tossed haphazardly onto the shore. On closer inspection, the broken things were distinguishable from everything else. One person was sick and looked away with a grim expression. A smell of iron and gasoline filled the air, further spoiling what was almost paradise.

A red fragment of debris foundered upon the shore. Two men waded into the surf and dragged the unwieldy bit of smashed metal ashore. One gained a nasty gash upon his hand. Salt water stung his wound and he swore. His blood indistinguishable from the ruined aeroplane, binding him to this scene. Finally reaching the damp sand they dropped their find, seemingly more important than the other flotsam.

“It belongs to them. I can read ‘Mayo’ on the metal. Look, there,” one of the two said. His colleague nodded. Other people gathered around the men, needing to see for themselves proof of what it was. As if the three broken bodies weren’t evidence enough. Like acid eating away a pretty face, everyone knew the awful truth. Nobody dared to utter the obvious. As if committing war and sinfully acquiring a place in hell?

Exceedingly slowly, the sun set and coloured the bay at San Carlos Water a beautifully vivid red. All present would remember this moment for all eternity. One old soldier limped over to his daughter. He wasn’t afraid to speak, being battle hardened on this very island. “I watched Natalie’s red stunt plane loop and roll in this sky, not an hour ago. I never saw her fly like that; she looked just like a bird. Then they came apart mid air and fell into the sea.”

“No dad, it’s not the same sky you saw Nat fly in. Her sky was always blue. This red sky is one of death. Somebody great died here doing something she loved, along with her family. Natalie loved peace. She would want to be remembered for that, as a free spirit who stood for peace. Her sky will always be blue, no matter what happens dad. Forever,” replied the soldier’s girl. He knew she spoke the truth. Everybody did.

Only God knew what happened when Natalie did aerobatics in her precious little Spanish stunt plane named Mayo. Did she overstress her airplane pulling out of a loop? Nothing except broken smashed fragments remained, including Natalie’s fractured body. Her husband and their young son Roberto were equally disfigured; so ferocious was Mayo’s airborne structural failure. Three lives selfishly stolen by death.

“You’re right, Natalie’s sky is always blue. It wasn’t good. I’ve not seen anything as bad since the war way back in eighty two,” nodded the ex British soldier. His gaze took in the scene before him and his daughter: people attempting to drag bits of Mayo out of the shallow water. Closer still and the final flames flicked out, turning to smoke; he wanted to ignore difficult attempts to save the bodies. It was like their old war and as wrong.

“We must continue her work. They would want that. We must keep their passion for peace alive, forever. We must do this for them and all of us. We must never forget what happened here, forty years ago. So it never happens again. And always remember that Natalie was part of war and then peace. We always must believe,” replied his daughter. Her tears fell at San Carlos Water...