I will never forget the time I saw the Northern Lights. The actual sighting was somewhat anti-climatic. It wasn't at the peak of an emotional high, or the fulfilment of a life dream. The scene we saw was short lived, and far from the most spectacular sighting. Overall there was a feeling in the group of relief. Finally we could go home and all of that time, longing, and money hadn't gone to waste. There was a gladness we didn't have to suck on the taste of disappointment. In that moment we really did resent that taste, and perhaps rightly; we were on holiday.
Tromsø gives an eerie feeling in the winter. The sun never rises above the horizon but by the middle of the day it is getting pretty close. The impression isn't that of constant darkness, but of an elongated day. The first light of morning is extended till midday, at which point the evening sets in and there are 12 hours of waiting for midnight. There are long evenings at my flat in Edinburgh too. In the summer sitting on the meadows and drinking with friends. In the winter walking home from University in the dark, seeing your breath in the air, terminating with a cup of tea in a cold room preparing for bed.
There is really no substitute for that feeling found in the long evening. It is a certain calmness and contemplativeness which makes your eyes feel larger than usual as if you are finally seeing the world as a whole. Alcohol helps too. At those times I have a habit of noticing some subtle, yet beautiful aspect of the evening, such as how the streets lights reflect on the wet pavement; the glistening of the concrete. These are the times I wish most I had a photographic memory. I wish I could remember these moments for recall when I really need them, as a little bite of escapism. Standard memory is no substitute. It does not capture the minute details - and these are where the emotion is locked up.
For a memory to fix, and the emotion to stay, what these moments require is some officiated event. The night you finally got together with your current girlfriend. The time you stayed up all night and lost your shoes running over the common.
The things I remember about the Northern Lights:
- The taste of the cod, potatoes and bacon served to us by the skipper. His Norwegian accent, and friendliness. How he invited me into the cabin. He ate fish every day.
- The meek Chinese couple that shared the boat with our party. Their quiet communication and broken English. How young they seemed and their private and deep companionship. The way the man talked about their work-based separation half way across the world. How they only met for holidays.
- The way in which the small waves hit the boat. Their peaks, troughs, and how the light from the island reflected onto and across the sea.
- The fabric on the chairs inside the living area. The glow of the kitchen. The mechanism for the ships toilet and the stiffness of the door lock. The sharp contrast to the temperature outside.
- The fibreglass hardness of the ship's sides. The bobbled textures. The soft muffled rumble of the ship's engine.
- The image of my aunt with about twenty layers of clothing on. More fabric than human. Shuffling around the ship like a snowman.
- And of course finally the Northern Lights themselves. Milky and pale across the sky. Little more than a turquoise cloud, waving and wandering through the air.
Seeing the Northern Lights was something childish for me. It was unlike the awe of a mountain range. It was more like the joy of childhood imagination. It was grace - a treat disconnected from my longings, hopes and fears. And finally it delivered to me that acute memory of the details of a beautiful evening.