Loop Over Loop

Photo: Lena Drapella

Coils of rope flicked through bare, tired hands. Methodically, repetitively, loop over loop. The cord created an infinite pattern silhouetted against the last light of the day.

Bright-coloured strands placed into the open palm, quickly, calmly. Beneath, bloodied knuckles throbbed from a fight with the vertical world. Each new bight of rope joined the rest, neatly, through practice from a decade’s worth of climbing. The ritual of coiling and uncoiling the rope before and after climbing, loop on loop.

The fingers felt each section, loop through loop, checking for telltale cuts or frayed edges like a person feeling the way in darkness. Rough rock or sharp edges could easily slice a lifeline such as this. He’d seen it before; knew ropes could be easily cut by accident. A jagged stone and a unlucky slip was enough to expose a delicate core - the rope's white heart.

Both sides of the coiled rope were symmetrical, each strand representing half a figure-of-eight, identical to all others. Left matched right, loop upon loop. He held it up to the setting sun as if an offering, inspecting the neatness of his work. The rope was more than a physical attachment between friends - it was a bond between climbers. A joining in safety, ideas, style. Where one goes, the other follows. Where one falls, the other catches.

He cinched the coils around the neck of the rope, as if regrettably making a noose. Loop passing loop again. Twist and catch, a flick of the wrist; just like the last route. His work now finished, the strands joined together in union, and the rope now tidy.

He watched the sun silently melt into the sea, imagining the giant fireball hissing and bubbling into the water. A cool breeze came in off the sea. Dusk. But there'd be another opportunity to climb again... perhaps tomorrow?

He dropped the rope into his bag and turned to leave.