Fitzroy, née Finisterre by Emma Harding

This is not what I wanted to write. 

I wanted to write about Finisterre. The shipping area that claims the northwest corner of Galician Spain before stretching out into the Atlantic Ocean. 

Finisterre - full of romance and mystery. Literally the ‘ends of the earth’. Named by the Romans who knew of no other land beyond its wild and rocky tip, Capo Finisterre. Here, leaving the coast meant a journey into the unknown. A journey from which you might never return. Perhaps this is why it sits at the end of a famous pilgrimage route. Indeed, according to Celtic legend, this is the place the souls of the dead gather to follow the sun across the sea.

I can imagine you shaking your head. Never one for romanticism were you? You, always so practical, so grounded. So impatient with my flights of fancy. 

Before I met you it was like I’d reached my own finisterre. Nowhere to go. Stuck. Settled. And then you came along, offering me adventure, a new world and I leapt aboard without a second thought. Cast off into the wide blue yonder, my eyes fixed on the distant horizon. What new lands might we discover together? How far might we go?

But it turns out you weren’t in it for adventure. When we floundered I, like any good captain, lashed myself to the mast, preparing to go down with my vessel. And you? You abandoned ship. 

I can hear your voice. There’s laughter in it but not a little exasperation. Don’t you think you’ve squeezed all the juice you’re going to get out of this metaphor? you ask. 

Maybe. But that’s what metaphors are for, aren’t they? They’re not just so we can transform the quotidian into things of beauty. They help us ensnare that which we cannot comprehend. Make the unthinkable imaginable. Because I don’t understand. I cannot comprehend why you left. 

I’m lying here, caught like a fish in the bedclothes. Sleep is about as far away as Newfoundland. The shipping forecast is on in the background, radio waves breaking against my thoughts. 

Moderate to good, occasionally poor. I didn’t see it coming. That whole period is shrouded in fog. Only brief glimpses - of your hand on mine, then not, your bag packed and waiting by the door, the sound of you on your voicemail welcome message that I listen to at least three times a day. 

Finisterre no longer exists. As a shipping area at least. They changed its name to Fitzroy - a name with its own romance, perhaps - in recognition of Robert Fitzroy, officer of the royal navy and scientist. He captained the Beagle during Darwin’s voyage to the Tierra del Fuego (another 'land', this time of fire) and pioneered the science of meteorology. He developed the shipping forecast to prevent the numerous shipwrecks caused by sailing blindly into bad weather. If only he’d been around to save us.

Without Finisterre, without you, I can’t write what I wanted to write. So I wrote this instead. It seemed only fair to leave you a note. I'm off to chase my own sunsets.