It Comes In Waves by Necessary Angel
I went to a party on Wednesday night.
Doused in bug spray and wearing long clothing and closed-toe shoes, I arrived at Harbourfront's Canoe and Kayak Centre just as the sun was starting to set. I climbed into a large wooden canoe with 18 other guests and we set off across Toronto Harbour. It felt good to be on the water. We turned our faces into the wind and alternately admired and disparaged the retreating Plexiglas cityscape. I sat beside a tall, blue-eyed playwright who I've known for a few years. We talked about CanLit and his recent trip to Mexico City, where he'd come across an elaborate system of artificial islands and canals.
At Gibraltar Point, we were greeted by a standing, gypsy-style band – a young woman with a trumpet, a man with a tin drum. I lost the playwright in the throngs of guests and wandered around the lighthouse. The host – wearing a bow-tie and holding a guitar – spoke briefly about the guest of honour.
In college, the two of them had gone skinny-dipping in the pond just over his shoulder. He distributed little notebooks, telling us to record one of our own memorable life stories on the first page. I wrote about the time I hitchhiked on a Harley-Davidson in Santorini. I was 20 and (clearly) not very bright.
Tremulous singing came from the woods as we walked to an open field. The host told us a dirty joke about nuns at St. Peter's gates, and instructed us to write down our own jokes. Then he led us through a forest and into a clearing where vintage-style lamps dangled from the trees. We listened to a woman sing a pretty song into a Shure microphone, before being told to record the seven things we love most. I listed obvious loves like snacks, coffee, Paris, but – it being such a beautiful evening, and being caught under a certain spell – I couldn't help but include someone's first name.
We were led around the corner to a narrow beach lit by antique lanterns. In the water stood an unforgettable image that took my breath away: a half-naked woman wading waist-deep near the shore. Her orange torch left a broken line of light behind her body. Lake Ontario looked like an ocean – the waves actually crashed.
When we arrived at the party, the toes of my sneakers were covered in sand. I ate dried figs as I unwrapped brie and smoked cheddar cheese for the other guests. We hid behind chairs to surprise the guest of honour. When he failed to show up, all kinds of secrets – grudges, errors, misdemeanours – were revealed through sardonic toasts and speeches. We witnessed glimpses of the tragedy that kept him from attending his own party. I thought he seemed like a nice, decent guy who'd screwed up a bit in life. It all made me a little sad.
Then we danced. We drank some wine.
As we left, the beach was lined with candles covered in paper bags. Lake and sky were indistinguishable, save for the constellations I could trace overhead. Faraway, in the darkness, a figure in a white dress danced on a pier. People tried to take photos of her. A woman snickered about people and their phones. I ignored her, but couldn't get a good shot because the camera on my phone isn't great and there wasn't really enough light.
I bumped into the playwright on our walk to the taxi dock. We compared the jokes we'd written down. Mine was something long-winded from a Mike Leigh play. The playwright hadn't known that Leigh wrote plays (on top of films), and I promised to look up the title and send it to him. His joke was by David Foster Wallace: Two goldfish bump into each on their morning swim. One says blithely, hey there, how's the water? They swim together silently for a bit before the other one stops and says, okay, what the hell is water?
A good joke, and somehow appropriate – about our inability to see the shape of it all, the most basic, structural realities. I thought about it on the water taxi, as Toronto came back into view.
It Comes in Waves, a co-production by Necessary Angel Theatre Company and bluemouth inc., continues at Panamania until July 24.