A salty sea breeze beckonds Mary Kay down to the cove. A day for fishing she thinks.
Fuchsia bells dangle. A curtain of honeysuckle scents the pathway between ferns,
freshia, nettles, waving grasses. Mary Kay sings a sea shanty as she winds her way
down a narrow path, with a fishing rod over her shoulder, fish for supper on her
mind. Circling down and around she passes through prickly gorse. Shade from the
high cliffs chills the air.
Mary Kay rests on the sandy shore awaiting nature’s theatrics of thrills, spills and
symphonies. A veil of white spray takes to the air. An effervescent energy unfolds.
Shoals of mackerel bubble in a frenzy before her eyes. Silver bellies dart this way
and that. Time to cast out.
The waves whisper and turn to a roar. White water gushes, rushes, splashes high.
Eerie sounds echo between the cliffs’ small space, lifting the volume. A drag, a rattle,
a pull, a crackle then silence.
Mary Kay casts out her line. It nearly reaches the island.
Silence before another sudden crash as a wave sores, rocks and rolls before finally
washing its way up the beach with unreserved gusto. Swirling, swishing, splashing
with energy as they have not met now for at least one minute, or until the last wave
rolled up. Troops of crabs, urchins rockfish rejoice in this friendly reunion as the
waves bring a host of fresh feeding opportunities.
Gifts of seaweed, polished driftwood are deposited along the shore, as the sea pours
up the beach to greet a friend. Seeping around worn rocks, over smooth boulders,
celebrating their friendship, hugging the shoreline. There is a harmony, a mystical
energy when land and sea unite.
A rush of waves prompts the oceans orchestral manoeuvres to erupt into a surprise
symphony. Glugs, clatters and rattles echo across the sheltered cove as water is
released through small holes replenished rock pools, pouring across muscle-studded
outcrops. Rocks spout, splash and vibrate against the rush of the tide. The sound is
deafening.
A salty tang rushes across Mary Kay’s lips. She jumps with surprise. A shrill
whistle sound erupts through the blowhole, releasing magic gust of sparkling spray
across the entire cove.
She feels a thug on her line.
This greeting performance is well worth witnessing, unless of course there is a bit of
a ‘shindy’ going on between them. Mostly when land is not listening and the sea gets
annoyed. It is wise then to high tail it out of there and take shelter far, far away.
Choppy seas lift, dark clouds cross the cove, a sea mist rolls in. Its bulking mass
sways, crashing onto land, climbing up cliff faces with lacy white bubbles disguising
its power, to erode chunks of land, homes, islands. Waves retreat only to take a
further lunge, aiming higher to upset delicate sea-pink, grasses and birds nesting
sites. Mary Kay sometimes thinks the sea is like an angry bull, being poked and
prodded until he can take no more and runs wild.
Waves race up the beach to return unwanted gifts. Plastics, rubbish, tangled fishing
line, broken bottles, rusted iron, medicine packaging line a misty shore. Forlorn
sounds echo across the seas. The lilt of music changes to gasping on flat or minor
notes reflecting disharmony.
The push and swell no longer reaches the shore line. The symphony of waves
withdraws.
Seagulls circle above the cliff face as Mary Kay catches a silvery mackerel for her
tea.