Yesterday I went to the tide pool. It was windy and I wobbled as I walked out to the first ladder. Great swathes of seaweed had spread since I’d last been and they were spread-eagled beneath the surface, black through milky grey. I climbed down the ladder into chest clenching cold, swam across with the sun in my eyes, edges etched in silver. The wind pushed small waves at me, each one smacking into my collar bone, bouncing spray into my face. Tiny towers of red weed sprouted everywhere, tickling my limbs, wrapping round my ankles.
I got out and dressed then walked the pool’s full circuit. The tide was coming in and on the far sea-facing wall the waves crashed in, throwing white spray into the air. The concrete was slick with a layer of weed and I took each step carefully. I found a cluster of limpets in the middle of the path, by a swirl of eroded concrete.
I got back to the sand and walked along by the waves until I reached the chalk stacks. I went between them, past all the carved graffiti, to the small bay that is cut off at the highest tide. I had it to myself. I stood and watched the waves crash in.
Beside me, a sparrow pecked at the sand, ran forward and back with the waves. The beach was strewn with mermaid’s purses, the discarded egg cases of skate, sharks and rays. They were leathery to touch and looked like tiny baby rays themselves, though the young they once housed were now hatched. There were whelk egg cases too, clustered into sponge like balls. The chalk was thick with green hair-like lichen, marking the high tide line. The sparrow ran forward, toward the sea, then back, pecked a bit more, then flew away.
Bonnie Radcliffe 