Forty years is a long time.

It was probably my very first full length essay, when I was in my early teens. Our English teacher gave us all a theme to write about, being – When We First Met.

So off we all went, trudging back home, to tediously try and complete this seemingly impossible task. What would we write about? How would we possibly manage to find all those required words?

And for the first time ever, that magic seemed to have hit me. It just suddenly came out of nowhere. As soon as I sat, biro in hand, I just started writing automatically with perfect ease, with ideas flowing, trying desperately to catch up with my thoughts. I even remember that I always had very bad handwriting, but this was virtually illegible, as I scribbled madly to put on paper what my mind was effortlessly throwing at me.

We all presented our work to the teacher, an ageing sour faced cleric, who I never ever saw smile once, in all the years he taught us. A day or two later after having read them, he presented them to the class.

It was very simply a never-ending tirade of “when I first met my best friend it was during the Summer holidays” with a couple of “when I first met my teacher on the first day of school”. Then there was mine. And in my naivety I truly and honestly didn’t even think that it was any better!

So when it was my turn, Father Frowny looks up at me fuming, holding up my essay in his hands for added effect. He told me “I want to know from where you copied this?”. I was like, eehh?? I beg your pardon!! “Just tell me which author this is”. What, sorry? He said that it was obvious that I copied it all and just changed a work here and a word there. The argument went on and on until he finally genuinely believed me, that it was entirely mine.

He of course slammed me for starting it off with the most boring and stereotypical of intros, being “It was a warm Summer’s evening” – now how lame is that! On my side of course… This was probably the one and only real thing sour face ever taught me. But then he went on to read my story, the essence of which went something like this…

“I sat there on the edge of the rocks, enjoying the cool Summer’s night air in the perfect silence of night. The breeze ruffled my hair (I still had hair then!) and sat, fishing rod in hand, looking down into the deep blackness of the waters below. My mind traveled to places afar, imagining views and landscapes and encounters. Then all of a sudden there was a ripple, which then broke out into a wave, until the waters broke just beneath my face and a big white beautiful stunning shark slid its massive head out of the water.

It glared at me directly in my eyes. We both remained there perfectly immobile, in shock, in silence, looking deep into each other’s eyes. We read each others’ thoughts. We made a magical connection. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, it slowly slid back away, beckoning me to follow. I hesitated, temped to follow it into the mysteries that lay below.

Later on after I had packed my fishing gear and was quietly walking home, I stopped and wondered. Was it all a dream? Was it just a figment of my imagination? I would never know.

That was when we first met. I still wonder if we will ever meet again.”

After he read it there were a few moments of silence in the class, before all the boys nervously started chatting again, not knowing what to make of all of this.

But the really sad part of this story is that what would you expect that a teacher should do, when spotting any sort of talent? But in this case he actually hated me and scorned me for as long as he taught me. Never a compliment, never a word of encouragement. Looking back now I am quite sure that he was quite simply jealous that a young teenage boy could write much better than he could, in spite of him giving the impression that he was god’s gift to the English language.

So the years passed and then the decades. And life takes you places you didn’t really plan. Luckily I also have a bit of a flair for business, so that is where I spent most of my life. I wrote very very little. A tiny article here and a little letter to the press there. But absolutely nothing like I should have. I simply left this latent passion virtually dormant, always telling myself that I really should start to write.

Yes that is the reality of our so called formal education. I was forced to study chemistry and physics and I don’t know what, but the talent I obviously showed was purposely thwarted and derailed, until now!

Forty years is a long time. But I sure as hell am going to make up for lost time!