The Call of the Sea.

The pull of the sea was hypnotic, an invisible rope tugged by an unseen hand. He couldn’t help but let go of his mother’s hand and run down to it as soon as he caught a glimpse, when he crested the stony bank that led down to the shore. It was a glorious feast, all laid out for him, the beach empty but for the two of them. He drank in the smell, the sounds, the salty spray swept inland by the relentless, wild wind.

He was mesmerised by the sounds the beach made beneath his feet: first the dull, musical clunk of the large, round pebbles worn smooth by the ebb and flow of the tides; then the metallic tinkle of the smaller stones displaced by the soles of his trainers, sliding past one another like pennies, cascading down the steep bank; and finally the satisfying crunch of gravel as he neared the water’s edge. Down here on the shoreline, the fierce, unrelenting roar was deafening, the waves continuously hurling themselves against the slope of the sand, throwing up violent jets of foam. And mixed with the roar, the churning and crashing of thousands upon thousands of little stones yanked up from the seabed and pounded over and over against the shore, ground against one another by the ferocious breakers, worn down a little more each time.

The sea was a wild thing, untameable, unknowable and alluring. A thousand white sea sprites shouting, “Come, play with us”. He knew it meant danger, but that’s what made it irresistible. Unheeding of his mother’s yell not to get his new trainers wet, he ran to the place where the curves of broken waves chased each other up the beach, in and out, racing the foam as it ran towards him. He could outrun it, just about, only the sea liked to throw up an occasional surprise, the odd wave that would travel too far, too fast. Or he would misjudge, jump at just the wrong moment and end up soaked anyway. It didn’t matter. Here he was free, he was part of the wild world. He wanted to run right in and soak himself to the skin, playing and splashing among the crashing waves. They seemed to be calling him, beckoning like sirens: beautiful and deadly. Nothing could draw him away, only the tantalising promise of an afternoon in the amusement arcades, and maybe not even that. He whooped and jumped in delight as they splashed around him in a game of chase, his wet trousers clinging to his legs, his hair dripping from the spray.

Until — suddenly — a step too far, and whoosh! A large wave took his legs out from under him and he was tossed and tumbled like clothes in a washing machine, head over tail, against the not-so-soft sand, the sea sprites turning traitor on him, conspiring to pull him under, laughing and taunting. But then — a strong hand gripping firmly, and he was lifted high out of the water, up onto the beach, breathless and panting. A coat wrapped around him and the familiar, comforting safety of his mother’s arms. He was not ready for the wild world just yet.