We all know that primordial sound of waves on the shore. The ebb and flow, the never-ending cycles of time, of life. A metaphor for the womb, for give and take, for life's struggles.
If you were to travel around the world experiencing waves lapping at different shores, would they sound the same? Or would each have its own unique rhythm on a calm and sunny day?
A wave crashing on the shore has many different components. It furls close to shore, and at its loudest, crescendos onto land, where it quiets and then fizzes bubbles for several seconds before receding. With every ebb and flow, the sea leaves its white latticework in the shallows, which never fully disappears but reforms with the next wave. Every now and then there will be just a moment of silence, like the space between an in-breath and out-breath. No two waves are ever the same.
Hearing the waves is a comfort, the sounds recurring over and over. The water brings an energy with it, an encouragement or perhaps an urgency. There can be tenderness, with several waves merely lapping; lest I become too complacent the next may crash, sending water over my ankles and up to my knees. The next minute the water, clear and unspoiled, feels like velvet on my feet.
I've been mystified by the crosshatch design left on the sand by the retreating waves. I cannot understand why it appears that way all along the beach. The air has a faintly briny smell which is only perceptible when the wind pauses.
Around the rocks is a grand slithering as smaller rocks and pebbles are pulled back with a mighty drag. And there's a tucking in around the rocks in the gentler ebbs, where the slithering turns into a soft gurgle. Hearing all the sounds together is a symphony, one that is made up as it goes along. Sounds I love always and never tire of.
