Where are we? Who are they? Hitting the banks with certain aggression, they are wild and unwavering. They are calculated, yet without knowledge; led by nature, but still easily perceived with anger. The swirls join into billows, surging a foundation for a powerful smash. The waves crash and thunder, though, upon an empty plot of sand. It rushes up the hill, ebbs, then recedes. Anyone who hears it closely would believe they are on something of the brink of death, but merely seeing the empty shore reveals the great lie. Still even as the second approaches, one shivers at its sound. Once seen, you will laugh and realise yourself a fool. What shallow deception and cowardly destruction? I have never seen a place like the shore.

I keel over the edge, watching the anchor rise from the raging cauldron. Voluptuous waves bash the hull. Unrelenting force you could only find in the middle of nowhere. While such a fearful sight, with feet firmly gripping the slippery gangway, nothing seems to taint our stability. The ship sturdy, fighting wind and wave as we all go about our work, and cargo unmoved; the bed of war so far below us it becomes a white noise. Although, we may be here for some time. I cannot wait to get back to the shore.

I have seen water flow, out the pipe and down the sink. I have watched it drip down the grooves of the roof on a wet summer morning. At times, it pours, making every dip in land into its own little lake. It sprinkles and splatters, wearing patterns into the concrete. Flowing down the field, it splits the roots, caves the curbs and topples the shrubs. If it floods your garden, just strike a hole in your wall. It then becomes the neighbour’s problem. Because see, on land, everything works a way you can almost expect; so few elements at play, such simple mechanisms to manage. To find someone fail at this game, well, then there is only one to blame. Get your newspaper and read the weather. Step out your house and observe the bed beneath it. What idle fears are there but the fear of taking charge. The water has its way in the world, and we can control it. I believe this, and I will show you by going to the shore.

Where are we going? Where is the shore?

Sailing the years, now the ink has faded from my wrist and my hair is clogged with grime. The gale rushes through the slightest gap of the window as I pray to fall asleep. The cold pierces as my body rattles away its energy. Throughout the hall, there are echoes and shouts of songs and bottles clanging. “What good times can be had in bad weather?”. The sound of the river upon the deck flows back and forth at each unnerving sway of the ship. “Why am I here?”, I ask as if I hadn’t asked and answered that question. “Where are we going?” I say, since my memory has seemingly been washed away by time. Finally, and suddenly, I slip out. The chanting quiets and the deck drains. The cold is numbed and the window is shut. Nothing has really changed, but they are no longer threats in my perception. The water has its way, and I have mine.

I step out onto the beach. The sun cuts the clouds and graces my forehead. With glee, I spade my feet at each step through the baking sand. The frozen water wraps my ankles. I jump with joy at the whimsical contradiction, and mockingly laugh at the little oncoming waves preparing themselves. I suddenly realised myself a fool, when the darkest cloud, at the greatest visible distance, over the flattest and calmest ocean, thundered then crashed. I ask, “Is this the shore?”