lapsi

I have always believed the sea is a language. 

Its absence on my tongue exposed the pain of distance. 

I once knew it as passive: glistening like oil under the heat of the sun’s rays. Light settled on its surface without breaking. And I, I was unwaveringly enamoured by the pulse of the current dancing beneath the waves – the rhythm of its breath. I ebbed and flowed against it every summer – like a child helplessly engrossed with the never-ending game of push-and-pull.  

Be still my beating heart. 

For the longest time, I yearned for the quiet of its horizon to teach me its steadiness. But some silences do not soothe; they foreshadow. Yes, we all remember days where the water was mostly quiet: a sheet of living glass. But we mistook this gentleness as being permanent. There were some of us who understood, though, that this calm was not always promised. That, it’s a pause – a breath to regather its thoughts. We knew the sea adapts. 

Most do not want to accept its inherently volatile nature. Its layered currents move through and against each other. Most attempt to interpret it; to look for meaning where there is none. Its balance is a thousand opposing motions briefly agreeing. And balance? Well, it boasts a fragile composition. The mercurial undertow is oft undetected. 

This winter, my friend is unrecognisable. 

My favourite cove disappeared – pressured by the unrelenting insistence of the sea’s waves. Once steadfast foundations gave way. And beyond it all, the little island had watched from its fixed perch, as it always has — watching as the cove collapsed upon itself, too far to steady the undoing. Did it feel helpless — will it ever forgive the sea? It, too, did not escape unscathed. 

I wonder, did the sea act with malice? It carries every conversation the Earth has with itself on its shoulders. My feeling is that it only responds. To wind that lingers too long. To inscrutable heat. To pressures the human eye cannot perceive.

Breathe, my lungs. 

Energy gathers quietly. Until it eventually bursts. The sea does not pretend to be singular. It does not apologise for answering the moon or the cyclone. It allows itself to be altered, repeatedly, without asking for permission. It’s free from convention. I wonder if those observing have forgiven me for eroding my old self. Nowadays, I realise that what I missed was not its daunting beauty. But I missed our romance – the way our souls understand each other’s. Our shared restlessness. 

The cove is gone now. Somewhere beneath the surface, limestone edges are softening into sand – its fragments washed onto shore or lost in the vast nothingness. The sea destroys, yes, but it is equally devoted to becoming. This loss – is it a quiet renaissance of rediscovery? 

My beating heart now beats still.