Dear Ocean,

Artwork by Alice Reid

I almost cried today when I saw you. 

It happened last week too. I thought it was just because of The Sparkling – you know, when the morning sunlight hits rippling water and you’re listening to Coldplay at the same time. 

But today was gusty and gloomy, and Mumford & Sons, so it didn’t quite make sense. 

I started writing something about us being soul mates. About two ever-changing bodies, two turbulent entities, and the raw emotion of our energies merging. 

But that’s bullshit/not it. 

Growing up in London I saw you maybe once a summer. The five of us squeezed into our rusty brown Cortina, part of the ‘privileged’ 40% of people living less than 100 km from you. 

Such impatience during the drive down, straining our necks as we got closer – trying to catch the first glimpse of you in the distance. Wanting to be the first to smell your salty and, if I’m honest, fishy air. 

And then when we arrived, we’d hear your gentle roar and sink into your wet sand, squealing at your fresh kisses on our bare feet. We’d burrow and dig and build castles, and watch the moats fill before it all got swept away. 

Our mum, on the other hand, would actually stand still as she closed her eyes and took it all in. Saltiness released as waves crashed against rock. My stepdad, closely watching her, would always say that a trip to the beach should be free on the NHS. 

Even when we got home you were still with us – a sorrowful residue on our cheeks, so tired from smiling all day, your nurturings still full in our tummies. We would always try to stay awake as long as possible so this day, this salve, wouldn’t end. 

So now I get it – these days, I see you every day. 

I’ll try not to get used to it.