The Breakwater

Large boulders piled high stretch out into the bay and form a breakwater that shields the beach from high waves and heavy swells rolling in from southerly gales. I have stood there at the end when the sea was hurling its rage and all fury exploded like bomb bursts of watery shrapnel into the air. I have seen such power subside and tamed to compliant licks around the feet of rocks. More than forty years ago on a deep breath I snorkeled down its ledges into the rock strewn and weedy world that lay at its base, places where stingrays slept and where fish glided effortlessly along crevices and over sponge covered outcrops. I cradled a fragile seahorse in my trembling hands. I no longer have the confidence to rock hop its length to the end but stand where it butts the land, commanding memory to whip up a wind and set wave upon wave to awaken a soul from its sleep and make it feel the sting of a southerly gale, wet, cold and wonderful, once again.