East wind bloweth

Today I look eastwards out over the cold sea towards Russia. The sea is pushed over the North Sea before a rolling wind that bites at my cold ears, bringing tears to soft eyes as it roars fiercely and crashes onto the fragile shore. Sweden was the last land this sea had seen though there are no blonde gifts from that distant country on this wintry day, just the molten grey sea. It seems just a dull mass but look closely at the water as it tosses across the surface and there is yellow, brown, deep green, a whole mix of colours in that swirling water so that it sheens with a deep palette like oil on the surface.

The waves roll towards me cutting sausage ends as they trundle onto the shore. From above they all look the same. Serried ranks of crested waves following on, one behind the other, to reach the yellow sandy beach to disappear.

She is beyond the hazy distance that is my horizon. Beyond reach. Far out to sea is a jumble of water, small wavelets lapping together in a random pattern. Closer to the land an indeterminate moment brings together hidden forces to create a new shape that rears up from the surface of the sea. In that fraction of time the water coalesces to build a wave, which grows larger as it journeys towards the land.

Now I can see that each wave is an individual, with its own character. In the distance a wave forms, promising much as its back arches to build a huge roll of water that I know will crash down on the foreshore with more energy that any wave that has gone before. Welling up from the depths like a whale, a mound of immense power gathering speed as it rises higher, and higher still until its very crest begins to break into white foam. From that moment it is doomed. Life began and ended without time. The breaking flash of white along its rim now shows this will not be a great wave. This is already a has-been. All force has gone, lost in the sprays of foam, like rushing cream, spurting and rolling forward deliciously as it rides atop the monster. For a few precious moments there is beauty, joy and potential. This is the moment to yell 'Yes' in a raucous bellow of joy.

Then it is over. In an instant the wave has gone, now no more than swell, lost like a fat bellied porpoise to the following wave. The awesome majesty once promised spent by the foaming crest that was both its crowning glory and its demise. Magnificence destroyed as the wave peaks just before its time, so losing munificence and respect.

Much had been promised. This was the wave that would become the standard against which all others waves would be compared. Spume should have broken along its uppermost edge only when it was to begin its last great rear at the shore. That was the moment when white should have crackled atop, just as it stood upright, poised like a matador waiting to thrust downwards with all its strength up the gravels beneath. That was the supreme unleashing moment. Then we would have marvelled as it crashed upon the hapless sands, with a thunderous roar, shattering itself into myriad droplets of white gushing spray.