The sun is shining like it thinks it’s July, high and golden, beaming health and the promise of warmth.
Like a star in the east, it guides us up the moss-ridged lane, lighting the way through the canopy of dancing leaves, up and towards the beach.
What doesn’t become apparent until we’ve arrived at the beach and opened the car door, is the strength of the easterly wind coming from the exact same direction, perfectly aligned with the rays of the sun.
This morning, the sea is glorious; dark blue green, high gloss, glitter spread far and wide, the whole thing made even lovelier by the movement of the waves and the kittiwakes swooping above.
The wind arrived when we became stuck in a high pressure weather system looping high over the top of Scotland, round and about, keeping us bathed in a cold chill until (depending on who you ask) the end of the week or the end of the month.
This wind is rather a trickster. Look out of your window into your sun-bathed garden and imagine how pleasant it will be to potter, perhaps pull a few weeds. Step outside and you are immediately disabused; cold, can’t hear for wind and, if you have hair, you have an irritating mouthful as soon as you bend down.
This morning at the beach at eight am, the wind is directly from the east. Later it’s north east, then north-north-east, then east-north-east and back again.
The North Sea loves the wind, it jumps back and forth and up and down as if it’s centre-stage at an eighties disco. This morning, the waves were chop, chop, chopping, big enough to look exciting, playful enough to be a little scary.
If you didn’t know the sea, you’d perhaps assume that waves are consistent, a measured row of points and dips that are perhaps a little high but predictable. One-two-three, space yourself between or before or after them.
No, never. Of course they’re not. What happens is that you wait for a break in the waves so that you can get into the sea without being knocked over and can reach your friends who are happily, if a little worried-looking in some instances, bobbing about.
The sea looks flat, I step forward and a waist-height wave appears and heads right at me, and then another, and another and another. I finally reach and join the bobbers. A wavy sea is delightful once you’re part of it. It lifts you up, settles you down, without you really having to do much swimming at all.
The swimming gang is bobbing up and down. Only Bikini, who has already swum a considerable distance against the tide, is separate. We’re a couple of hours before the first high tide and water temperature is eleven degrees; not that one really notices the cold when one is focussed on the waves.
For a few moments we have lovely flat water, a little swim, a smile. And then a head-height wave approaches from the horizon followed closely by its brother and its aunt. More fibonacci than measured sequence.
I’m not in for long. I get back to the beach without being knocked over and bathe in the loose bits of sun while getting dressed as fast as possible.
The fisherman’s boat is at the water’s edge, great fat gulls already waiting for him, which says something for their enthusiasm (or laziness) given that he hasn’t yet been out to get a catch.
His boat is stern-on to the water while he pootles back and forth on the beach arranging his pale blue rollers that help the boat slide up the shingle when he comes back to shore.
We exchange family news and weather (he reckons the wind will last for a week) and he tells me about the VE days celebrations the previous evening.
‘I heard they lit the beacon,’ I say.
‘Yeh, but they didn’t put much in there. One of the coldest evenings on the beach I can remember.’
Rumour has it that our pretty land girls spent much of the time in the car sheltering from the weather.
I asked him if he minded me taking some pictures of him and completely ignored the fact that he was reversing into the sea. Perhaps he always reverses into the sea and I’ve only just noticed? Horrific observation skills.
He cleverly, steadily, pulling his lines attached to the buoys I know as severed heads, reversed into the sea, and was off.
The sea cabbage has burst up and is beginning to bloom. The kittiwakes and gulls play with the wind.
We miss our Canadian, far off in Calgary, over a very choppy ocean, where the sun is cleaner and brighter because the air is washed by the mountains.
Such a well written piece 👌
Always a fan of connecting with talented writers like you
You can really feel the sea in that photo. Great shot. The waves look almost transparent. You get that when it's such clear light but cool air. It's true summer's promise was there, but it was just around the corner, hiding in plain sight. It will come. We were hiking in the same wind beside Dartmoor streams, basking in glorious sun at times, then turn a corner and the nippy gusts take your breath away. Jackets on/off, on/off.