Thick, white, convinced lines, drawn across the ashen San Antonio Bay by oblivious machines of buffoonery. No thoughts of waste or exhaust or obscenity enter the driver’s mind, the fifty horse power vibration of the waterverhicle traveling up through his crotch to utterly confiscate his thinking. No thoughts of change, loss or mortality dare enter this violently fortified mind. Mindfullness squared. The loud growling that renders this instrument of frolic upsetting to anyone not on it, is mercifully absorbed by the distance. In the silent picture that reaches me, the white figures they make in the cloudy water almost seem elegant. And unbearably carefree.

The last time I watched this postcard of a view, the water was still a sky-reflecting-blue, the air still simmering and I someone else. Someone with a living past. It was a past lacking the need to think about, as it was there for me to grab whenever I felt like it. And, like so many people before and after me, I failed to do this. And now it’s gone. A vault, that was at my disposal for such a long time, has been locked forever. And with the fickleness so characteristic of the human mind, thoughts of this lost past cannot seem to let up bombarding my consciousness. Now that I can’t ever have my father’s strong, loving arms around me, I’m unable to stop digging around in my memory for the moments they actually were. Real moments from early childhood, and invented ones I don’t truly remember, but that I know were there, in a certain shape and for a wide variety of reasons. Besides, after such a long time, who can say what and how it was exactly, anyway?

The island hasn’t lost it magic, it is comforting to be here, but it has dampened. The clear sounds of the water gurgling in the pool, the birds heralding the day’s end, the salving breeze ruffling the leaves of the palm tree, they are subdued. It’s me who has lost something. What exactly, I don’t know, but it’s larger than I can as yet fathom. For now, it has materialized in a persistent deafness, (the main culprit in the muffled sounds) that was born the day my father died. It’s a very explainable affliction, a side effect of a nasty cold virus that has held my sinuses hostage for that entire time. As a result, I have been living with my head in a fish bowl since my dad passed away, increasing this feeling of isolation, of being detached from the rest of the world. I guess that’s a fitting physical condition for my mental state, that can be described as a cauldron of utter confusion, out of which I need to distill anew my place in this world.

My dad, he was larger than life, and so much more than my father. He was my teacher, my doctor, my music coach, my best friend for a long time, my debating partner, my conscience. Now that he no longer is, I feel as if my body and mind are amputated. We already almost lost him once. A brain hemorrhage  changed him and removed him from me somewhat, and I have been less mentally dependent upon him since. I thought it had prepared me for the moment he would really be gone. It didn’t, or, to put it this way, I don’t know how it could have possibly felt any more earthshattering to lose him. This brain hemorrhage he sustained eleven years ago was terrifyingly close to doing the job the cardiac arrest handled more successfully, on the eleventh of September of this year. Something about the date, I guess. My father always had a knack for symbolism.

Most things seem rather futile now. The island is rounding off the season with a few more weeks of festivities, and many friends and acquaintances flock to Ibiza for drinking in the last rays of autumn sun before taking shelter from the Dutch winter and digging up out of attics and cellars the woolen overcoats they’ll be needing again. Before my father’s death, I was looking forward to joining them for a sunset-hued freshly-caught-fish-dinner on the beach, or meeting them at one of last happening parties, savouring our special situation and the abundancy of time we have here.

When everyone gets on a plane back to rainy and frantic Amsterdam, we get to stay. There’s a sticky sadness carried by every breath of clean, consoling Ibicencan air, and a visceral pain at not being able to see my handsome and brilliant dad enjoying the same cloudless, light-filled skies I get to behold every day. I have failed at bringing him here sooner, so I could show him the full moon setting in a lavender sky moments before the sun rises, and make him smell the dew-dampened wild rosemary that thrives in these evergreen forests. But despite the tinge of dejection that has dropped a film onto life, I feel happy and grateful for being here, and for having had a father like that. I will be treasuring the sun reflecting off the bays like sequins, the turquoise waters that my children jump into and the praying mantis that visits our terrace every evening, perhaps even more so than before. But now, every experience will come paired with a picture of the radiant man that gave his life for the ones he loved and new life to many others.

In the spirit of Kees Wamsteker, my father, I will take in all life and this tiny island has to offer. Except maybe for jet ski riding.

For people without children it is impossible to fathom how busy you can be entertaining and caring for your progeny, how they can take up a great deal of your time, especially during those precious holidays, usurp it. This is how it’s possible the days fly by, leaving you wondering what on earth it is you did. It wasn’t lying idly in the shade, reading a half-decent novel, that’s for sure. Or even browsing one of those mindnumbing fashion editorials. Hell, you hardly even checked your Facebook newsfeed or retweeted some mindblowing headline.

Well, first of all, you fed your offspring. That means making breakfast, lunch and dinner, although one of these might be avoided by eating out. Secondly, the kids need to be played with. Just placidly floating in the swimming pool is not a realistic option. Even when you try to enter the pool without anyone noticing, knowing the youngsters are miraculously sojourning in another section of the vacation grounds, they find out through some age-old telepathic instinct that also convinces children up to a certain age that nothing beats playing with one of (or, better even, both) their parents. So doing some laps is not a viable alternative either, unless you can manage this with two cheerful but very present minors hanging onto your neck and arms.

No, it will be ball- and kid-throwing from now on, joining in a diving contest, or pretending to be a shark. Before, or after, their pool fun, the children need to be lathered with sunscreen. That’s not something they like, mind you, so it takes quite some patience and persuasion before this is carried out. It takes at least half an hour, and once a day is not enough, not with this August sun beating down on their rain and cloud habituated skin.

Next come the waterballoons. The kids are big enough to fill them with water, but not quite big enough for tying the knot. So that’s where you come in, wriggling your big fingers in impossible curves to make sure the water stays in. Well, at least for a while. And, what’s the use of making the water bombs without having a fight? Before you know it, you get drawn into a water-balloon war, which is actually a lot of fun.

And then there’s the no-fun wars. Sibling wars. You try to figure out what happened, who did what and who is right, which is utterly impossible and exhausting. You notice the big sister ‘accidently’ turning off the tap a bit too late, which causes the balloon to extend beyond its capacity and explode in her little sisters face. You are pretty sure she did it on purpose, but she says ‘no’. So how to deal with it? Next, you catch the little one sticking out her tongue to her sister or hitting her on the head with a naked Barbie-doll. Quite some time is spent in the guise of a blind referee.

Worst of all, when you finally have the opportunity to be by yourself, to clip your toenails for example, because the other parent generously decides to take the little ones snorkeling, you feel torn, as it will be their first time to experience the mystifying underwater silence. When they return with excited stories of salt-and-pepper fish and underwater hedgehogs, pushing and interrupting each other in order to be the first one to tell you, this nagging little splinter of regret gets stuck somewhere between your stomach and solar plexus. So when the plan is hatched to jump off cliffs into the cyan waters of Cala Salada, even though you just planned on checking some emails or brew a peaceful cup of coffee, you resignedly join the excursion. With kids, you just can’t win.

But then again, you already have.

Leo’s first jump ever off a six foot cliff…

Robin doesn’t bat an eye. She just spreads her wings and flies, like the good little bird she is.

After three days, I think we are starting to settle, ease into the temperature and the rhythm of the island. Like I said before, to adopt a house that has always only been used as a holiday hideout and turn it into a regular everyday work and school domicile takes some adjusting. School beginning will help tremendously, of course, as that will automatically draw us into an everyday structure. And I think it is time for some structure after this endless summer holiday of packing, work and childcare. But first one more week of dolce far niente.

Yesterday we had a little taste of the schoolattending days, when we went to the Morna International College to introduce the kids to their new learning environment and buy them their uniforms. The school surroundings won’t be a problem, I guess. Nestled between fir trees in the countryside of Santa Gertrudis, with gorgeous sportsfacilities and a small adjacent forest for romping. I guess our already spoiled children will be even more so. Oh well, anyting for the offspring, right?

This is the second day of our new life. Yesterday morning we arrived by ferry from Barcelona, and were greeted by a shameless sun like a spotlight that dared us to drive our car from the ship onto ibizencan soil. On our first day on the island we fittingly saw the sun come up and go down in a perfect cloudless sky.  It feels strange to be here without it being an actual holiday. Well, we will take some time to relax before the hard work begins. And we will find out how island life becomes us…

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