The Sea

New Zealand 2006
Once upon a time, I woke up at 5am.  Got dressed and quietly let myself out to walk under brilliant stars and sodium arcs.  The rest of North Island slept with the exception of the wild dogs that silently roamed alongside me.

I walked with them, not really seeing them, not really listening to their langauge as I quickened the pace and began to jog.  They joined in, half heartedly, then went off to investiage some day-glo scent that still lingered under that cold night. 

I jogged, then ran, found the beach and the sand, ran barefoot with the moon at my back and the thunderous applause of the ocean to my left. 

Ran faster, sand biting into each footfall, heart thudding , blood alive with some wildness reserved for 5am runners.

Cornwall 2008
Once more upon a time I woke up at 5am.  My brother slept next to me in the ice cold tent, snored and grumbled like some drunken animal, butt naked and somehow restrained and entwined by his sleeping bag.  I got up quietly, tiptoed out and shut the tent flap.  The rest of the campsite sat still in dew.  Random rabbits patrolled the alleyways and streets our tents had created, yellowing squares that would remain after we'd left.  From inside each tent came the nasal, contented snores of kind hearted strangers who had eaten, drank and laughed together.

I walked past the tents, past the cabins past the receptions, the shops, the streetlamps, the trees, the river, all traces of civilisation, until I was knee deep in salt water. 
The tide was in, and always would be for the likes of me.  I was the first one awake. I was the last one alive.  My footprints were the only ones that scarred the cold wet sand from town to water's edge. 
I walked, I ran, I climbed over rocks and crawled into tunnels.  Stood under giant walls of granite, laced and bleeding with prehistoric copper, listened to schools of mussels gasp in their tidal absolutions, jet black hands pressed together in prayer.  Lichen and moss hung like garlands, celebrating my arrival, like some inspecting stranger.  Walking on, past the cove and its rocks, hip deep, trainers tied together and hung around my shoulders, then on to some forgotten corner where a lamb had fallen into the sea, drowned and washed up, it's eyes thankfully closed  Seemingly asleep.

I went back, this time the water chest high, trainers wet, regardless of where I had tied them.  My back to the sea, the dawn, the cold air cut into ribbons by sharp rocks.  Went back to sleep and eat, to shower and shave, to talk and laugh, to seek out and avoid.  And all the time, a corner of the world held a lamb that looked like it slept.

And at some point the sea would reclaim it and whatever industry of consumption toiled within its pure white wool would go out again, burning in salt as the Vikings had burned in fire.