Saturday, 30 May 2009
Despite appearances, after descending the sand-dunes and hitting the beach itself, heading into the wind was a little bitter. I was forced to shove my hands into my pockets, pull my woolly hat farther down over my ears and put my head down against the sting of drifting tails of dry sand that whipped along the damper sand, like wreathes of smoke.
However, after turning to head the other way, with the wind at my back, things were altogether different. My hands warmed-up and could emerge from my pockets. With the wind at my back, I started to enjoy the sight of foam draped against wood and kelp,
of sunlight on a patchwork of hills
and all the tiny, sand drawings and sculptures where the wind and sand had played with the detritus left behind from a high tide.
And all the while, at my side, the huge, roaring waves kept within their boundary,
as the ocean like a wild dog foaming at the mouth, strained and bayed against the chains of sky and earth that keep it tethered.