I forget, sometimes, that I should look to the sea itself.
This weekend I went to Leigh-on-Sea with a group of friends. We participated in an Abbey Night, turning off all our electrics (barring the fridge) and stocking up on candles. It was a great night, although I’d argue that with great company it was easier to break the bond with technology than were I alone. I may attempt to institute one of those for myself; if nothing else it’ll help me get more reading done.
But I digress.
What I wanted to talk about was the view. I borrowed someone’s phone to take photos, near blind by the sun so that I only had the vaguest notion of where I was aiming, and how they turned out. Predictably, the framing could be better.
At around four in the morning, we decided to visit the sea-front. Walking down to the shore past the empty boat-yard, laughing all the while at horror-film tropes. But when there, faced with the cold lapping of the water, we grew silent, staring out into the distance.
We were surrounded by sparse sounds of faded boats, their ropes swaying, knocking, against their masts and hulls. Vestiges of sea ghosts lingered on the sand, lending their translucence to the speckled debris.
It was quite a thing.