July 2017 - Sennen. It curls like blown glass

Wearing the sea

The sea reminds me of a muscle; a great heaving one that carries me along, with tendrils sucking at my arms. If I touch softly, it feels soft. Hit it hard, it feels hard.

This morning I asked a local surfer how to body surf (bodyboarding without the board) – she said, throw one arm forward, swim with the other, and catch the wave. I caught the wave, was flung forward, rolled over the seabed, and spat onto the beach where streams of Atlantic poured from my nose and mouth. It was brilliant, painful fun. We had to avoid the riptide, and the granite lumps scattered around on the sand. Yellow and red flags guided the swimmers, black and white flags the surfers. Lifeguards patrolled the beach, wary.

The sea that slides down my face has the power to hurl ships. Still it’s vulnerable, damaged by our plastics and our use of fuel. Every time I ride out on the sea, I share my food with it by way of offering. I worry for it, I fish out plastic and waste, try not to foul it, hope to preserve, curate, and appease it. I love it but wonder if it’ll kill me in the end.

It’s made me more alive in the meantime.

Fling your veg: