The retreating tide.
I stood on the flat sand and made my exposure while the incoming waves petered out around me, the tripod legs cutting trails and swirls in the dying surges of water . On the horizon the wind was drawing clouds onto the sea and, as the breeze made me squint, the whole world seemed to open up in a lightness of pure, unfocused white; white sky, white sand and a disorientation which hid the steady sinking of my feet and tripod into the foam.
I found this oddly shaped piece of driftwood on the rocky shore and placed it in a crack between two stones where it traced a connection between the earth and the sky.
Standing by the water’s edge, mesmerised, the edges all seemed blurred. Do pebbles belong in the sea or on the land? Where does the horizon actually draw its line between sky and water? What story lies behind the journey of this flotsam on the beach? Just an insignificant tale of man’s propensity to litter and discard, or perhaps a tale of of shipwreck and heroism where life and death are thrown into their own sharp perspective? In that place where answers do not offer themselves readily, the questions seem strangely more acceptable, less agonising. The unknown, unfathomable but perfect.
Innocence at the edge of the deep.