On gazing out over the English Channel at Southbourne-on-Sea.
We live a few moments’ walk from the clifftop path. From here, look West, East and South over the long reaching fin of the north east Atlantic. Call it The Channel; call it La Manche.
The surface is forever breathing, changing, surprising, pleasing.
But it’s the teeming collective sea-lives I am imagining, as I stand looking out opening myself up to my submariner sense.
I take my imagining under and I go deep.
I am discoverable in the nakedness of the deep. I tense and relax inside of the almost limitless cubic salty kilometers.
I wander alongside the floating populations, the slow tribes, the single species. Giant extended families who move with one accord. And I too can float with the slowly lowly barely visible water-clouds of diatoms.
I strain a little, look down and I am entranced by the swaying dark slippery wavy forests of kelp.
I sense the varied bands of pressure, from top frothing waves to far abyss, against my flanks, my skin.
The shifts of temperature and pressure in these vast waters I compare, in my air-breather way, to the hourly, diurnal and seasonal colour changes of our familiar and welcome domed sunlit skies.
[For the photo, my thanks to Zippo, loyal friend and guard of Heike Jenkins, DrumCircle leader extraordinaire]