I recently read The Woman in Black*, by Susan Hill, where tides play a role. I'm pretty sure that's when the seed for this little tale was planted.

Here we find a man sitting by a beach, at high spring tide, contemplating... what?

And yes, the POV shift is intentional. Stylistic experimentation or just quirky writer, I'm not sure.

* Way better than the movie. In my opinion.


Spring Tide
by Winter


The rush of the waves had ceased a while ago. Now, there was only the occasional gentle slosh against the rock. The strength of the receding tide counteracted the wind, and made the surface almost dead calm.

At peak tide, the water had almost reached his toes. He was sitting just above the highest water marks, still clutching the letter in his hand. Had there been more wind, the waves might have swept him away.

It was a tempting thought.

The pebble-strewn beach lay empty, as it usually did this time of the year. It would have been too cold to enjoy a swim, had anyone braved the warning placards.

The tides, the currents, the unpredictable undertow. Not to mention the remoteness and the long hike from anywhere even vaguely resembling decent parking. All served to make this the perfect getaway spot.

He decided to not read the letter again. He knew every paragraph, every word, every letter and every spelling mistake by heart. And, its message. As loud and clear as words printed on paper ever got.

Out at sea, halfway to the horizon, eddies began to form, frothing whenever a wave passed them. Which meant that underneath the surface, the water was moving. Rapidly. Any swimmer out there would be pulled under and carried away, perhaps to never be seen again. No wonder people of old believed in merfolk, hippocampi, sea serpents and other water creatures. Who could have guessed that something so simple as nature acting natural, could be so violent?

And again, the thought was alluring.

A lone tear escaped his lashes, and ran down his cheek. He had cried before, while it was still raining, but this time he felt embarrassed. This time, had someone else been there, they would have seen.

The water was lower now, well below the high mark. Almost like a regular tide. Somewhere up there, far beyond the grey clouds, the sun and the moon were moving on. Ever indifferent. Sighing, he smoothed out the piece of paper in his hand and looked at it. The words were still there, they still spelled out the same thing. No need to read it. Just the key parts.

Though he knew it all, the hurt remained fresh.

There was audible splashing out there now. The tow, the retreating tide and the opposing wind rising up, all competing against one another, whipping the poor water into a foam.

White geese, they were called in his old country, these frothy wavetops that travelled slowly to shore. He could not recall what they were named in this new language.

Are you out there?

The thought comes unbidden. Unwanted. Unwelcome. I don't want to think about you. About where you are. Where you went. Why you went. The letter burns my hand, but I'm not going to read it again.

I scrunch it up and throw it as hard as I can. The wind tries to bring it back, but gravity wins. The water wins. It floats there on the surface for a few seconds, before it soaks through and sinks. The meaning of words remains, though.

Once more, I long for the waves, for them to take me. The undertow could be my bed, forever. The waves could rock me to sleep while the surf sings my lullaby. I take a couple of steps towards the edge of the sea, almost close enough for it to touch me. Draw me in, if it decides to.

Then I snap out of it, turn around, and start the hour-long hike back to my car. Back to... life?

I can still change my mind.