18 The lighthouse Overhead, the sun hung like a lazy balloon drifting across the sky as it delivered its warm rays to the world. The waves were small and myriad, sprinkled with glistening light as they made small, soothing splashes on the hull of the kayak. The sky was vast and there was no hint of a breeze. Out in the open water a kayak felt impossibly small. It was only the rugged crags and outcrops of weathered rock which provided a sense of anchor to the dry land. Everything around them was vast. From the murky, seemingly colossal depths beneath, where dark shapes moved sluggishly and kelp swayed, to the unimaginable expanse of sky and sea before them, an almost primal sense of awe and elation was instilled in the vessel’s occupants. When the world stopped, the only noises were the whisper of crashing waves and the crisp scent of sea salt. Everything transcended into the empyrean, becoming no longer tangible, yet all consuming. The white lighthouse, a tiny figure in the distance, appeared to the eye as a forlorn guardian, long at his post, yet utterly dedicated to his charge. The hugging shell of the kayak rocked from side to side in the gentlest fashion, such as a mother might cradle an infant. Individual features on the rocks became suddenly prominent; like old men’s wrinkles and cracks coming into focus with alarming raggedness. Individual waves caught the sun like sculpted porcelain of the highest quality. The calm was lulled onwards with the caressing call of the sea-birds, and the sun burning amber on the horizon. By Connor Miles
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