To stand—salt-stiff and spray-drenched, high on a cliff watching the sea grow and grow until she takes up the whole bay, a constant rolling thunder, breaking and cracking as she arrives, every seventh wave the largest, every seventh seventh larger still—is to feel alive.
Wow, Alexander, I am so intrigued by the turn this pierce took. And I absolutely loved the first section about the Atlantic Ocean during and after storms. I live on the coast of Massachusetts's, and a favorite thing to do is to go down to the beach, and the mouth of the Merrimack River after a storm. I've been on these shores for over a half a century and have witnessed so many changes to the coast line. Dunes and houses washed away, sand bars appearing. Bracken and sea weed comes and goes. Rocks get moved around, swept out to sea. In recent years the damage is worst. The flooding gets higher. And I absolutely get the rush of standing a safe distance from the wild ocean, although there are no cliffs here where I live. It's all marsh land around me.
Thank you. It is a source of constant fascination, how our world is constantly reordered around us, especially by the coast, all those things taken away and others left in their place. To witness this over a period of time is a powerful thing, a reminder of life, in a way.
Watching as the edges, the coasts, are rearranged with increasing regularity and severity is perhaps the easiest way to see how our species is altering our planet at a remarkable rate. It is humbling and it is terrifying both. Of course, in the (geologic time) long run, the world will restore a balance, it's just that humankind is unlikely to be around to see it if we keep on our current path. I find that strangely comforting. I think this is the big problem with the climate emergency, too many people see it as an abstract issue affecting the land, the oceans, the air, and they forget that our species will be at the centre of this maelstrom.
(Oh, and I was born in a corner of Lincolnshire which was all marshland, flat and dark-earthed, with ancient trees sometimes pulling their way to the surface. Marshes are fascinating places.)
Gorgeous writing, Alexander. I had been looking forward to reading this piece, had set it aside until I could read absent haste. I am not disappointed for having waited! You give us lessons from the sea. Thank you.
Thank you so much Renée. I'm really happy you liked this. I'm still a long way behind in my reading, but hopefully that will change soon; I have quite a long list of saved posts to read, but I'm trying not to let it stress me, preferring instead to think of it as a library to savour.
Permit me to share that I find comfort in knowing I am not the only one who is "still a long way behind in my reading" and " trying not to let it stress me, preferring instead to think of it as a library to savour." The feeling of community and the appreciation for one another's work is there all the while.
It can be hard, when time is tight and the to-be-read list grows, but I cannot tell you how happy it also makes me feel, to know I'm not alone in this. Community, as you say, is there all the while, something I am so truly grateful for in this space. Thank you.
I grew up on the Baie de Chaleur in northern New Brunswick, Canada and currently live on the Bay of Fundy in southern New Brunswick. In recent years, our weather has been increasing fierce. The shift in our coastlines are obvious. Mother Nature will have her way if we aren’t mindful. I love walking the coast line and have started a practice of bringing rubber gloves and a bag with me to clean the incredible about of plastics and, for some reason, dog doo bags from our beaches.
I think that's an admirable thing to do, bringing rubber gloves and a bag on a walk. If only more people did this. It was always one of my pet hates, when I would find those dog bags (full), neatly tied to bushes, hanging on fences, or sitting on a rock or beside a path. Why people do this, I have no idea, once you've bagged it up that's the hard part done, after all! This doesn't seem to happen so much here in France, but I wonder if that's because picking up after a dog is still a relatively new thing.
And you are right about Mother Nature, she'll certainly tip the scales when she's had enough.
I don't know if small acts contribute to the greater good, but I think of all the microplastics they are finding in aquatic life and the hazards to plastic to animal life in general. I'm not sure why we can't extend common courtesy (and sense) to other forms of life. I wouldn't throw a dirty diaper in some random place, why would I leave dog excrement:/
I think small acts like this are actually crucial. It isn't necessarily the volume of rubbish we could collect (which is tiny, when compared to what is possible with industrial scale backing), but more the social knock-on, how others see this. Of course, there'll always be those who simply do not care, but that's their problem. If we can get to a cleaner, kinder society which does care, they'll be forced to follow. I'm a big believer in active hope (as opposed to wishful thinking), and collecting rubbish like this is a great example. Thank you.
What a lovely comment, thank you so much! And thank you for subscribing, both these things mean the world to me. It is so wonderful, when people find and feel my words, I'll never take that for granted. Thanks.
One of my favorite places on earth is Montana de Oro on the Central California Coast where I lived for many years. Spectacular coastline sculpted by the sea.
One day, I'd love to voyage up the west coast of the Americas, or maybe down? There is something so wondrous about these places, where the sea sculpts and the wind brings the salt. Many thanks for your comment and for subscribing, that makes me happy.
Wow, that is a rich feast of words indeed, Alexander. Damn, they’re good. Enviably good. Your reflections on the coast reminds me why we will seek it out on our next move, wherever that turns out to be. We crave the crashing sea and its strength to remind us of our mortality as part of a bigger world over which we hold no dominion. Here in the Vienne the wind rules. On a day like today it drove the rain against the buildings, windows, and our faces. Powerful forces at work. Visceral. And, my word, your story is a kick up the ass for my storytelling, a reminder of the power of stories and how to craft them. Excellent start to this year, any year. I must get my pen scratching.
Thank you so very much for this. I'm certainly with you on seeking out the sea where'er we next go (Aurélie seeks out the places she can swim and, especially, dive, so it's likely to be somewhere a lot warmer!). We have very little wind here, the mountains each have their own moods, some funnel the air and squeeze it into fists, others, like ours, seemingly absorb it, deny us that movement. Growing up in a corner of the world where the wind was almost constant, I miss it as much as I miss the ocean.
I'm really glad you enjoyed the story too, I was feeling a bit sorry for this tale, shelved for the better part of a year, so it felt right to share a snippet.
You remind me, I need to find where my fountain pen has hidden herself; I've had that pen for (pause to count) nearly forty years now! How did that happen? Thanks again for this comment, it made me very happy.
JoJo is our swimmer ... I'm a towel holder ... or fair weather dipper! I was gifted a fountain pen for my fortieth, a Mont Blanc that is the smoothest write I own. Words do come easily with it.
Ooh, that sounds a lovely pen. Mine is a mid-80s Osmiroid Italic, which was never an expensive brand or model but, seeing as I've used it for a ridiculous amount of time, the nib has shaped itself/worn down to precisely the angle of my penmanship! Anyone else who tries to use it ends up scratching the paper, but it's perfect for me.
I certainly prefer walking along the beach rather than swimming along it. Rockpools are portals of wonder.
I'm an auld fella and I can tell you I hankered after an Osmiroid Italic pen with a lever ink fill for in my school days (76-83). I can imagine how personalised yours is. As they should be.
Superb poetic writing of/from the sea! It makes me feel jealous that I don't know these feelings the sea brings and of which you write so well about...
As for the fiction part, you can't leave this story on the side ; this beginning is brilliant, you transport us in a new world just in a few lines. I need to read more.
Oh thank you! I'm not sure you'd enjoy all that wind, however! I'm sure that at some point you'll get to experience the feelings the sea brings (and you already know vastly more about under the water than I do).
As for the story, I did draft more of it, about a year ago now, but I can't afford the time to finish it at the moment. Maybe one day I'll return to it (it is a part of a much bigger whole, after all).
Many thanks. I imagine you've witnessed your own share of such storms? They really do stick in the memory, that full-body frisson of excitement mixed with a deep and ancient fear, they are, as you say, a special kind of magic.
Definitely, the ones that brew in the Gulf of Alaska and make landfall where I grew up feel the same. There is something very fascinating about them in a primal way. I really miss living somewhere where it storms like that. It instills a reverence for nature in us by force, I believe.
I found the seemingly endless hot, still days of northern Thailand a little difficult at times, preferring the rainy season, when at least there was no pollution and powerful thunderstorms (if very little wind). Here, the wind is a strange thing too, there are times it will shriek down to us, very quickly, very briefly, then be gone for weeks. Storms bounce from valley to valley and mountain to mountain, but they do so slowly. I miss that power of an ocean storm, that sense of reverence you describe. Potentially, one of the places we are next looking at moving to is Guadalupe, and I guess there's more wind (and hurricanes) there. I try to understand the weather here, along with the rest of the natural, but it does feel like something is missing.
I really relate to this. Coastal storms are like nothing else and I miss them so much. Something about them makes me feel very comforted and peaceful. I love always being reminded of the indifferent natural forces much larger than myself. You don't get that so much living away from the ocean. It is a really hard thing to leave, and it does always feel like something is missing. Guadalupe would be quite the adventure! Back to that ocean-driven climate!
Oh very much yes for the islands, I miss being on an island, they always feel like home to me. The shipping forecast was something I would enjoy too, the words, places, lore and rhythm, the poetry as you say and, of course, the amount of data contained within. I think it can be a good thing, to be reminded of other places. For me, talking of coasts is certainly a comfort and melancholy both.
Wow, Alexander, I am so intrigued by the turn this pierce took. And I absolutely loved the first section about the Atlantic Ocean during and after storms. I live on the coast of Massachusetts's, and a favorite thing to do is to go down to the beach, and the mouth of the Merrimack River after a storm. I've been on these shores for over a half a century and have witnessed so many changes to the coast line. Dunes and houses washed away, sand bars appearing. Bracken and sea weed comes and goes. Rocks get moved around, swept out to sea. In recent years the damage is worst. The flooding gets higher. And I absolutely get the rush of standing a safe distance from the wild ocean, although there are no cliffs here where I live. It's all marsh land around me.
Thank you. It is a source of constant fascination, how our world is constantly reordered around us, especially by the coast, all those things taken away and others left in their place. To witness this over a period of time is a powerful thing, a reminder of life, in a way.
Watching as the edges, the coasts, are rearranged with increasing regularity and severity is perhaps the easiest way to see how our species is altering our planet at a remarkable rate. It is humbling and it is terrifying both. Of course, in the (geologic time) long run, the world will restore a balance, it's just that humankind is unlikely to be around to see it if we keep on our current path. I find that strangely comforting. I think this is the big problem with the climate emergency, too many people see it as an abstract issue affecting the land, the oceans, the air, and they forget that our species will be at the centre of this maelstrom.
(Oh, and I was born in a corner of Lincolnshire which was all marshland, flat and dark-earthed, with ancient trees sometimes pulling their way to the surface. Marshes are fascinating places.)
Gorgeous writing, Alexander. I had been looking forward to reading this piece, had set it aside until I could read absent haste. I am not disappointed for having waited! You give us lessons from the sea. Thank you.
Thank you so much Renée. I'm really happy you liked this. I'm still a long way behind in my reading, but hopefully that will change soon; I have quite a long list of saved posts to read, but I'm trying not to let it stress me, preferring instead to think of it as a library to savour.
Alexander,
Permit me to share that I find comfort in knowing I am not the only one who is "still a long way behind in my reading" and " trying not to let it stress me, preferring instead to think of it as a library to savour." The feeling of community and the appreciation for one another's work is there all the while.
It can be hard, when time is tight and the to-be-read list grows, but I cannot tell you how happy it also makes me feel, to know I'm not alone in this. Community, as you say, is there all the while, something I am so truly grateful for in this space. Thank you.
I grew up on the Baie de Chaleur in northern New Brunswick, Canada and currently live on the Bay of Fundy in southern New Brunswick. In recent years, our weather has been increasing fierce. The shift in our coastlines are obvious. Mother Nature will have her way if we aren’t mindful. I love walking the coast line and have started a practice of bringing rubber gloves and a bag with me to clean the incredible about of plastics and, for some reason, dog doo bags from our beaches.
I think that's an admirable thing to do, bringing rubber gloves and a bag on a walk. If only more people did this. It was always one of my pet hates, when I would find those dog bags (full), neatly tied to bushes, hanging on fences, or sitting on a rock or beside a path. Why people do this, I have no idea, once you've bagged it up that's the hard part done, after all! This doesn't seem to happen so much here in France, but I wonder if that's because picking up after a dog is still a relatively new thing.
And you are right about Mother Nature, she'll certainly tip the scales when she's had enough.
I don't know if small acts contribute to the greater good, but I think of all the microplastics they are finding in aquatic life and the hazards to plastic to animal life in general. I'm not sure why we can't extend common courtesy (and sense) to other forms of life. I wouldn't throw a dirty diaper in some random place, why would I leave dog excrement:/
I think small acts like this are actually crucial. It isn't necessarily the volume of rubbish we could collect (which is tiny, when compared to what is possible with industrial scale backing), but more the social knock-on, how others see this. Of course, there'll always be those who simply do not care, but that's their problem. If we can get to a cleaner, kinder society which does care, they'll be forced to follow. I'm a big believer in active hope (as opposed to wishful thinking), and collecting rubbish like this is a great example. Thank you.
Thank you.
You know, Alexander, you can really write.
Thank you Mikey, that means a lot to me, coming from your good self. I'm really happy you liked this.
This is extraordinary, transporting writing. I hung on every word, lived in every question posed, a reveled in every poetic observation.
What a lovely comment, thank you so much! And thank you for subscribing, both these things mean the world to me. It is so wonderful, when people find and feel my words, I'll never take that for granted. Thanks.
I'm excited to read more. You have a naturalist eye and voice, which is my favorite kind of writing.
One of my favorite places on earth is Montana de Oro on the Central California Coast where I lived for many years. Spectacular coastline sculpted by the sea.
One day, I'd love to voyage up the west coast of the Americas, or maybe down? There is something so wondrous about these places, where the sea sculpts and the wind brings the salt. Many thanks for your comment and for subscribing, that makes me happy.
Wow, that is a rich feast of words indeed, Alexander. Damn, they’re good. Enviably good. Your reflections on the coast reminds me why we will seek it out on our next move, wherever that turns out to be. We crave the crashing sea and its strength to remind us of our mortality as part of a bigger world over which we hold no dominion. Here in the Vienne the wind rules. On a day like today it drove the rain against the buildings, windows, and our faces. Powerful forces at work. Visceral. And, my word, your story is a kick up the ass for my storytelling, a reminder of the power of stories and how to craft them. Excellent start to this year, any year. I must get my pen scratching.
Thank you so very much for this. I'm certainly with you on seeking out the sea where'er we next go (Aurélie seeks out the places she can swim and, especially, dive, so it's likely to be somewhere a lot warmer!). We have very little wind here, the mountains each have their own moods, some funnel the air and squeeze it into fists, others, like ours, seemingly absorb it, deny us that movement. Growing up in a corner of the world where the wind was almost constant, I miss it as much as I miss the ocean.
I'm really glad you enjoyed the story too, I was feeling a bit sorry for this tale, shelved for the better part of a year, so it felt right to share a snippet.
You remind me, I need to find where my fountain pen has hidden herself; I've had that pen for (pause to count) nearly forty years now! How did that happen? Thanks again for this comment, it made me very happy.
JoJo is our swimmer ... I'm a towel holder ... or fair weather dipper! I was gifted a fountain pen for my fortieth, a Mont Blanc that is the smoothest write I own. Words do come easily with it.
Ooh, that sounds a lovely pen. Mine is a mid-80s Osmiroid Italic, which was never an expensive brand or model but, seeing as I've used it for a ridiculous amount of time, the nib has shaped itself/worn down to precisely the angle of my penmanship! Anyone else who tries to use it ends up scratching the paper, but it's perfect for me.
I certainly prefer walking along the beach rather than swimming along it. Rockpools are portals of wonder.
I'm an auld fella and I can tell you I hankered after an Osmiroid Italic pen with a lever ink fill for in my school days (76-83). I can imagine how personalised yours is. As they should be.
Superb poetic writing of/from the sea! It makes me feel jealous that I don't know these feelings the sea brings and of which you write so well about...
As for the fiction part, you can't leave this story on the side ; this beginning is brilliant, you transport us in a new world just in a few lines. I need to read more.
Oh thank you! I'm not sure you'd enjoy all that wind, however! I'm sure that at some point you'll get to experience the feelings the sea brings (and you already know vastly more about under the water than I do).
As for the story, I did draft more of it, about a year ago now, but I can't afford the time to finish it at the moment. Maybe one day I'll return to it (it is a part of a much bigger whole, after all).
Touching and very relatable. Coastal storms hold a very special kind of magic. I loved it.
Many thanks. I imagine you've witnessed your own share of such storms? They really do stick in the memory, that full-body frisson of excitement mixed with a deep and ancient fear, they are, as you say, a special kind of magic.
Definitely, the ones that brew in the Gulf of Alaska and make landfall where I grew up feel the same. There is something very fascinating about them in a primal way. I really miss living somewhere where it storms like that. It instills a reverence for nature in us by force, I believe.
I found the seemingly endless hot, still days of northern Thailand a little difficult at times, preferring the rainy season, when at least there was no pollution and powerful thunderstorms (if very little wind). Here, the wind is a strange thing too, there are times it will shriek down to us, very quickly, very briefly, then be gone for weeks. Storms bounce from valley to valley and mountain to mountain, but they do so slowly. I miss that power of an ocean storm, that sense of reverence you describe. Potentially, one of the places we are next looking at moving to is Guadalupe, and I guess there's more wind (and hurricanes) there. I try to understand the weather here, along with the rest of the natural, but it does feel like something is missing.
I really relate to this. Coastal storms are like nothing else and I miss them so much. Something about them makes me feel very comforted and peaceful. I love always being reminded of the indifferent natural forces much larger than myself. You don't get that so much living away from the ocean. It is a really hard thing to leave, and it does always feel like something is missing. Guadalupe would be quite the adventure! Back to that ocean-driven climate!
Oh very much yes for the islands, I miss being on an island, they always feel like home to me. The shipping forecast was something I would enjoy too, the words, places, lore and rhythm, the poetry as you say and, of course, the amount of data contained within. I think it can be a good thing, to be reminded of other places. For me, talking of coasts is certainly a comfort and melancholy both.