It was an impulse decision to take the early morning train to Brighton. At 7:28am, I boarded the train, swapping the view of the city for countryside lanes, rolling hills and then eventually, the ocean.
I think about the ocean a lot. I think about the waves, the salt and the lapping of water against the shore. The wind was vicious that day and the clouds moved through the sky briskly, the same way the morning crowd moves when on their way to work in the city.
Brighton doesn’t have soft sandy beaches, but instead, giant round pebbles perfect for skipping. You can smell and hear the ocean before you see it. The waves are rough, crashing against the beach. Thick white froth pools at the shore before pulling back out. The waves curl into each other over and over again. They have their own rhythm, their own dance.
Seated on the hard pebbles, I found comfort by using my backpack as a makeshift cushion. I don’t know why I love the ocean, I suspect it’s because I’m a Pisces, but who really knows. There’s nothing that soothes me quite like the sound of the waves. After a brief google, I found that there’s a word to describe it: susurration. It is derived from the Latin verb ‘susurrare’, which means to whisper. Huge waves are said to thunder.
I sit close enough that I can feel the salt spray against my face. I let my hair down in the wind, and it quickly becomes tangled. I can feel the salt and grit intertwining between my fingers. I listen to the sound of people crossing the pebbles, the crunch as their feet dig into the ground. They use their weight to pull themselves forward as if moving through quicksand. I let it embrace me, sinking my heels into the pebbles, making little indents to rest my feet in.
If there’s one thing a beach guarantees, it’s children. They have no fear of the cold when freedom and playtime are at stake. It’s kind of beautiful. I watch a boy sit crossed leg at the edge of the water, the waves crash into him. He picks up a rock and shouts to his brother who can’t hear him over the sound of the wind whipping by. Eventually he gets up and starts running towards the ocean at full speed, the waves toppling him over before he returns to shore to do it all again.
I feel the urge to dip my toes in too. The water is freezing and my skin prickles. In the same way I curl my toes when I walk on soft grass in the garden, I wiggle my toes, digging my feet further into the sand. The sand is colder beneath the surface. I walk the length of the beach, side-stepping over larger rocks and protruding jagged edges. I wish I brought my bathing suit so I could dive into the waves and float on the surface. My granddad, even at 85, does this every year. He travels out to Dog’s Bay, in the West of Ireland to swim in the Atlantic.
It’s been needed, this little ocean break. I think living in a city has an edge to it; there’s a drive to keep moving, to keep climbing the social ladder, to keep pushing for success. So many months in the same space, with the same commute and the same loudness. So many weeks of waiting for sunshine. And now it’s here. I can finally wake to a warm glow outside and sun-kissed skin.
It’s hard to shake off that city feeling — the one that associates busyness with success. But pausing might be a start.
Lie in the sand, escape the city and sit by the ocean for a while.
I loved this, Natalie! I realised at the weekend that I hadn't been in the sea at all this year - so spent some happy time on three days this past week making up for lost time. Yay to salt water, shingly beaches and their beautiful pebbles.
Another great post - thank you!
I love the sea too Natalie and don’t get to it nearly enough. I love the wildness of it and the way the sea heals you when you stand in front of her and let everything be washed away. I love Brighton and am missing Whitby, for one reason and another we’ve not made it this year.