God’s Dandruff

When I was young, my mother explained thunder as God moving furniture. I asked her about snow, and she told me it was God’s dandruff. The view from my hotel window that second morning made me ponder that the ever-present deity needed stronger shampoo.

            The odds of being snowed in at the palatial Hotel Toplice in Slovenia were shortening, much to my horror. It was an all-expenses paid corporate break at a luxury spa resort with excellent facilities and stunning views of Lake Bled. Cue the world's smallest violin, perhaps? It’s a tempting respite from long-term work stress. If you don’t suffer from thalassophobia, the fear of deep water. 

            This insidious condition dictated much of my life. Even swimming in the thermal pool offered by the hotel was more than I could attempt in front of strangers. I do not sit in window seats on planes, I don’t go on beach holidays, I avoid bridges over water if I can, I have not seen the Jaws movies, and I have never been on a ferry.

            Imagine the somersaults my brain was doing, having arranged lunch with Mira, a charming Croatian widow I met in the bar the night before. Reading the hotel guide that morning revealed they served lunch in the conservatory beside the deep lake. I wanted to cancel, check out early and head off to an urgent meeting I had been summoned to. But a heavy celestial cascade of divine dermatitis had ruled out that implausible excuse. 

            Mira joined me on time for lunch. Dining tables were all arranged with uninterrupted views of the vast body of water with its wintery mountainous backdrop. The snow had stopped, and the alpine scene provided a picturesque setting. We chatted about our careers; logistics for me, and recruitment for her. We also discussed the joys of Slovenia, its charming yet narrow roads, and our sumptuous hotel. Inevitably, the damn lake came up.

“We should take a boat tour before the snow starts again,” Mira said. She looked prepared for such an eventuality with a pastel pink cashmere pullover and a thick woollen cardigan resting on the back of her chair. Her long, silky blonde hair reached its fluffy collar.

            “It’s not my kind of thing. Never has been. Perhaps a walk in the gardens instead?” I said.

She gave me a quizzical look with her warm, pale blue eyes and asked, “Is there a backstory to your aversion to small boats gliding through calm water with beautiful scenery?” 

I rarely share this part of my life with close friends and colleagues. Still, something about the serenity of the view and the probability of never seeing my lunch guest ever again allowed my mind to recall it.

“It’s a grim tale, but being here to de-stress, maybe it’s a chance to lessen a recurring nightmare,” I said.

“No, please don’t on my account unless you think talking about it could be therapeutic.”

“It might be,” I said with a smile. “I was nineteen years old when it happened. I went on a camping holiday to Yorkshire, in northern England, with two lads the same age. We had been school friends and had wanted to complete the Three Peaks race. It’s a timed single-day hike, up and down three mountains or hills compared to those over there.” I pointed across the lake to the Julian Alps of north-western Slovenia. 

“OK, that sounds challenging. And there is water involved?” She asked.

“Not on the hike. It's relatively easy if the weather is kind. We attempted it on a school trip five years prior, but heavy rain led to its curtailment. We did three peaks on our first day; the next day, we visited The Strid. It’s part of the Wharfe River near Bolton Abbey. The width narrows from thirty to six feet as the river passes through thick rock. The water courses swiftly and deeply. Visually, it was underwhelming, to be honest. We expected there to be water splashing about to take cool souvenir photographs. Jonathon scrambled over the rocks, hoping to get splash water beside him in a picture. The rocks were mossy, and he slipped. He disappeared - the current took him downwards. It cuts under the granite, thirty or forty feet, and they never found his body. There have been several fatalities there, but we were young, daring and possessed a false sense of invulnerability."

“Oh, good heavens. That is dreadful. What a tragedy for you to witness.” Mira said.

“I often see Jonathan slip in my nightmares. My mind fills in the details, and sometimes, I visualise a hand rising from the water and grabbing his ankle to pull him into the torrent. My friend Ray and I blamed ourselves for not persuading him down from the rocks. His parents and sister were heartbroken. In those days, there was no grief counselling. It affected us all for a long time. I should have considered hypnotherapy or a similar method, but avoiding deep water has become ingrained in my daily routine. This silly phobia has haunted me for 35 years.

“I understand now. Your hesitation about the boat trip makes complete sense. Discussion is often beneficial, and I hope recounting your story assists you in letting go of the memory. Still, if not, I would advise you to consult a mental health expert. You should not have to relive that part of your life repeatedly. Shall we go for that walk?” She asked.

We wandered in the garden for an hour until the dropping temperature made the hotel’s warmth irresistible. Our afternoon and evening comprised conversations carefully navigated around any mention of water. I told her of my divorce nine years ago, and Mira told me she was recovering from a year of mourning the loss of her husband to cancer and her plans to visit the Giza pyramids in the Spring.

The next day was the last I had booked. There had been no more snow, but there had been a heavy frost. It covered the windows. I had a refreshing hot shower before meeting Mira for breakfast. She greeted me and pointed to the patio doors. “Good morning! The lake David, it's frozen solid,” she said.

I looked out to the lake, and it was a totally white landscape. The snow-covered mountains and the snow-laded forest merged seamlessly with the boundless expanse of white frosted ice.

“We can walk on it,” Mira said. “The staff have tested it, and it is safe to walk on. Let’s do it. Shall we?”

She steered me from the breakfast buffet to the patio, with remnants of mist still rolling across the lake and the hotel grounds. We walked a few steps from the shoreline sanctuary, bearing snow-covered kayaks. We stepped cautiously, our trainers ill-suited for the slippery surface. The ice creaked and cracked near the shoreline, and my heart raced, reminiscent of Jonathan falling into the rocky gully. I wanted to turn back, but Mira gently led me forward.

I took a deep, chilled breath and could feel the ice was now solid like concrete underfoot as we ventured further. We held hands for mutual assurance—hers in mittens, my hands bare and pale blue. Five yards into the lake, we stopped and absorbed the solitude. The clattering of breakfast cutlery was the only sound that broke the silence. Outside our icy bubble, the world was still, as if life was on pause. Mira lost her footing, and I reacted instantly to catch and steady her. We hugged for warmth and balance, and I looked down at the frozen water as the snow resumed. There was a dark section visible. I scraped away the layer of frost and snow to see, through crystal-clear ice, a large black stone on the lake bed. I braced for a ghastly vision of a hand emerging to seize us, but saw only the gently settling descent of God's dandruff.