Two dozen or more wetsuited surfers, like black seabirds, shags or cormorants, sitting on the sea as it swells beneath their tucked-in legs. Or seals getting up on their tails to follow the waves as they become two-third or three-quarter circles in rolling, tubular motion.
The plane of the sea, rising up towards the horizon, its undulating body threatening at any moment to swell and engulf the bay window of the house in which I sit.
The Land’s End peninsula erased by a seamless blanket of mist and low cloud. The froth painting the golden sand a brilliant white, glossy in the sunshine.
That’s the sand that I washed up on. How did I get there?