Every day I walk the sea’s edge. The liminal sea. I look out over the waves and watch sailing dinghies lean into the wind. A large ship passes way offshore full of strangers. The sea sound is wonderful and the smell enticing. However, my heart is fearful. It is liminal because it is a line I will not cross. The sea kills, even those who play on its edge, die. Water is heavy, suffocating and unforgiving. The simple answer is stay away, stay on firm land, stay dry, stay upright. It’s strange how intoxicated I am by this fluid phenomena, that I need a daily dose of sea spirit. The gulls know this and fly silently by, like ghost birds. It’s as if we all came out of the sea, but we fear the fluid mothership.

The sea

The sea is in my blood. My father was a refrigeration engineer on ships before he dumped us. My mother, abandoned far inland, dreamt of returning to Gosport, her home town. She never made it, alive anyway. As cremated remains, we returned her to the oily harbour. She will be content there. The daily ferry across to Portsmouth was her loved experience. Abandoned on cowshit strewn rural lanes, where people talked of hay and sheep, bored her to death. As a kid I could do nothing to help her. Is it her genes in my body that require me to live by the sea? Perhaps. What are we but mimics of our parents.

The Liminal sea

Shropshire, where we were abandoned, never really appealed to me and I never want to go back. Firstly, the sea puts me on the edge and I need not see beyond that. Secondly, the waves lull me and nothing intrudes but the noisy gulls. When I die, I will be buried inland, as dry as I can be while decomposing. My spirit can soar over the coast and mountains, preferably in the sunlight.