The storm passed, as storms always do.
It’s hard to believe this though, when doors slam, windows rattle and shrieking winds of despair blow a hoolie through the nooks and crannies of our home.
Next morning clouds scudded across a dazzling sky, and waves, still seemingly unsettled by the events of the previous night, crashed nervously against the rocks.
We shuffled through pungent seaweed, me clinging to my father’s hand.
“She will come back, won’t she?” I faltered.
“When she’s ready, son… in her own time…”
That time never came, and my father tired of waiting.
As did I, eventually.
Our seaside town, though on the south coast of England, faces east on a peninsula. When we get spring tides it’s not unusual to wake up this kind of scenario. Only days after this, high tide combined with strong easterlies, redecorated the entire seafront with stones, rocks and pebbles and sweeping away some of our lovely beach huts. Seldom a dull moment on or near water, I’ve always found. Friday Fictioneers, under the leadership of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, is also a pretty lively scene if anyone wants to join us with a 100 word story in response to a photo prompt each week.