Walking along a windswept beach, whose golden brow wraps its length around the land, I decide to look down and make the floor my story. Often, at least in my case, I spend my moments by the sea staring out at the great expanse of it, its rolling greys and blues that peak into foaming white crests. I have found the act of this to be both freeing and overwhelming in equal measures, but what of the shore. The shore, who takes of the thrashing and writhing water everyday and does not wince. The shore who, like I often do, collects the oceans treasures – and untreasures – as a curator of a nautical museum might do. This shore is where I begin my story making. What I am trying to say, is sometimes we learn more about the ocean, not by looking out at it, or going in to it, but by observing the way it treats its closest neighbour.
This shoreline has the impeccable capability to be as soft as silk even with the harsh wind and water battling about it. Like any true lover of the beach would do, I took off my shoes and socks and scrunched up my toes in the satin sand. I was surprised by the warmth of it, remembering the summer, bodies lined up like shiny seals to bask in the sunshine. Today was not one of those days, as the bluing clouds hung so low they almost kissed the white crests far out towards the horizon. But that was not where I was looking, for as I walked, taking care with each step not to miss a piece of treasure, I came across a crab. This crab hadn’t made it back into the sea and all that was left was a pearly white shell. This to me was as precious as if I really had found a pearl, a strange creature with claws and far too many legs. But this wasn’t what stopped me, this went beyond matter and had more to do with the spirit. You see the crab and I understood each other in that way only sea lovers do, in such a way that the word ‘love’ almost seems inadequate to describe it.
I certainly did not anticipate having such a close experience with death. I would have preferred watching it from afar, simply evoking its role as an inspiration in a painting or recognising it in a book. Much like the waves that rush towards the shore in complete abandon, so I got caught in the crux of it, having to soak and mold into its every crevice. That is where the shore and I meet, as I pick up the crab and turn it over, revealing its hollowed home. It’s safe to say the sea has saved me many a time. Despite it’s dangerous reputation I have only ever known it to be the closest of listeners. As I find a seat in the sand, picking up a pebble, inspecting it, before discarding its round body and finding another, I let myself be with the grainy voice of the ocean. Salt is not only of the sea, but makes its way down my cheeks and swills in my throat. Not unlike the cry of a seagull, or the rhythmic swish of the dune grass, the waves talk in a familiar tune. And all I have to do, is to know the shore as if it were a friend. Understanding that, in its humility to take the changing tides onto its golden cheek and not flinch, there is a act of pure love.
