Other people’s words about … the sound of the sea
Sometime after midnight the rain and the wind stopped. The room filled with the sound and smell of the ocean, both amplified somehow, as if it were about to pour through the windows, full of storm debris — ground up shells, rotting wood, seaweed, the husks of marine animals, endless other fragments suspended in the salt water, all of it caught in the roar of the waves. But by then there was no one awake to hear.
from ‘The Restorer‘
by Michael Sala
Living as I do between two houses close to the sea, I’ve noticed how the smell that drifts towards each house from the beach differs not just from day to day, but also from house to house. Our house at Taperoo is pretty much at sea level, and though it stands several streets back from the beach, on days when the wind is westerly, blowing straight off the ocean, the air that drifts into our yard is rank with the smell of salt and damp sand and rotting seaweed.
The sea is shallow at Taperoo, too; you can wade out for quite some distance from the shore, heading towards the horizon, without the water rising much above waist level. You can see this, I hope, in the photos illustrating this post, all of which I took a few weeks ago on one of my early-autumn strolls along the beach.
But it’s the sound of the sea I’m thinking of right now, rather than the scents or the sights. Tonight I’m in the house at Taperoo; as I write, it’s three o’clock in the morning and — unlike in Michael Sala’s description, quoted above — I am awake to hear the roar of the waves.
I’ve always been a light sleeper, and, sensibly, my partner long since gave up trying to share the night-time hours with me. I can hear him now in the room next door, rolling over in his sleep, the springs of his mattress creaking, the bedpost knocking against the wall. At the other end of the house, on his blanket in the laundry, our dog sleeps, too, sighing and licking his chops, letting out a little snore.
So I’m the only one awake right now. Somehow, the sound of the sea through the window comforts me in my sleeplessness, connecting me to something outside myself, outside my house, outside this long, dark, lonely night.
In the morning, the sea will sound different — more distant, somehow, less intimate. But morning isn’t here yet.