A day by the sea.

On May Day, the family went down to Mudeford in Dorset, with the express purpose of getting on a boat, going out to sea and tossing my grandfather over the side � or rather, gently scattering him into the English Channel. It was a piss-miserable day leaving Reading; The rain belted down, the wind alternately whispered and howled, big black clouds swaggered and bowled through the sky. Mum, Nur, Angus and I headed south in the former�s car, travelling roads I haven�t been down since I was about twelve. Past Stratfield Saye and The Jekyll and Hyde, past the octagonal house at Chineham, then through Basingstoke rapidly, where the sun decided to join us in brief intervals. We hit the M3, going almost to Southampton before turning off onto the M27, then into the New Forest, where I saw the peculiar three-storey house that always announced to me, when I was a child, that we were nearly at the beach. Finally, we arrived at Mudeford at about 10.15, where we found the rest of my family already gathered. The cloud had gathered again, and gobbets of rain fell intermittently. A small boat was ferrying people to Hengistbury Head; The younger members of the family were fishing for crabs; The car park was full of dour-looking families, penned into their vehicles by the weather. Yachts filled the bay, scudding along on the wind, sails gleaming, a busy spin of colour. A fisherman was stacking some lobster creels, and a small caf�, the type that smells of egg sandwiches, milky coffee and hot vinegar, was packed. Despite the occasion, everyone in the family seemed to be in a happy, almost festive mood. We were making fun of Gary, my cousin Lisa�s husband, because he gets violent seasickness and wouldn�t be joining us on the boat; Their two children were busy hauling crabs out of the sea, while Angus looked on; The men chatted about golf.
We got on our boat, a twin hulled open deck aluminium ferry, at about 11.00, and headed towards the open sea. The sun was struggling to get through the clouds and briefly made the wave crests shine like old pewter. A jetski roared past, and a fishing boat heading towards shore. We made jokes about throwing up or falling in the water, while I busied myself with trying to write a poem (still writing it). I have written something each time one of my relatives has died � whether they�re any good or not, only time will tell. Finally, we got a mile offshore. Law dictates that human remains may not be disposed of further towards the shore than that, apparently. The skipper cut the engines and turned the boat so that it faced the land again. He opened a gangway door, so that dad, when he let the ashes go, could be nearer the surface of the water. We all went silent. Dad got the urn and knelt carefully by the lapping water. There were no prayers.
�Right, It�s time,� said dad. �This is where Dad wanted to be, and he�d be happy to see us all here. As I pour him into the water, just keep a favourite thought of him in your head.�
He took off the lid, upended the urn. A stream of ash, a flow of what had once been bone and teeth and hair and nails and viscera and heart and brains and a loving, happy smile and glittering eyes, poured straight into the sea and down. I had a sudden feeling of the great depth and volume of the water and the swirl of dust that had been Grandad glittering and curling through it, like cream on black coffee or the arm of a galaxy against the blackness, falling and gleaming until it reached the bed. A sudden, brief wail went up from the women, an intake of breath and the sound of crying and sniffing.
�Bye, Dad.�
My father had said it almost to himself; I just about caught him saying it, and saw a few tears.
We threw flowers over the side of the boat � roses, sprays of heather � then watched in silence as the boat gently turned on the current, before the engines were cranked up again.
As if to complete the sombre moment, a seagull appeared and wheeled over the spot, then it began to rain.
It rained bloody hard. We all got sodding soaked.