Sea-pies

Mum as child (2)

They used to call them sea-pies. Oystercatchers. They look like pies when they stand squat on the sand. Turning into the stretch of promenade before South Marine Terrace, I disturbed them. A glut of them, hugging close to the sea wall. Hearing my steps in the dark, they started to hop about, moving closer to the sea. Becoming disorderly, pip-pipping, bobbing forward. I moved on quickly, not wanting to upset their slumber. Was it because of the storm that they came closer to land?

It was a wild night. The windows were bending, blowing inwards, I swear. And now all is calm. Gone. A perfect blue sky. Colder though. My fingers nipping with cold, even with two pairs of gloves.

We walked yesterday afternoon, even in all that wind. He didn’t want to but acquiesced. He always does. The sea, what a sight. A churning mass of chocolate brown fury, fringed with white. Bubbling with white. Frothing. It is so powerful. I catch my breath. There is nothing compared to it. So alive. So elemental. It forges its way to the shore, hurling stones, debris. The Perygyl was lost to water time and time again. Two students stood behind a movie camera on a tripod. Making a film. Freezing, stamping feet and chafing hands.

The early morning was silent except for the flump flump of my wellies. An occasional blackbird would dive down onto the pavement before me. A black shape darting. Then gone. No robins this morning. Too cold.

What a rich life. I am replete with it today. Grateful. Content.