drifting along a beautiful seawall on an island, they have no agenda, nor purpose. nothing's important on a day like this. quarried stone holds back waves, waves breaking unnaturally on hard stone. make no mistake; any rock weathers on these edges. some last longer than others. these stones last longer than we do. for us the people are always the story. and here, the story is that the people do not seem so very important. not much going on, no real dramas are unfolding. the drama here is all unseen, and unseeable, or maybe the drama is the landscape.
mute evidence of long ago eruption, cooling rocks swim in warm pacific waves. a thousand miles away a gentle breeze stirred a sea, and pushed a surface droplet against another and another. the pile rose and now waves wash over these dark rocks, we watch their rhythmical arrival, hear a pattern of splashes. they could be a clock, dividing our days. we might live between wave peaks, resting in valleys. and how the sun burns down on us.
Beach House Memory more than a hundred years have passed. these lava rocks: a high foundation on sea's edge. high up, it had to be, because rogue waves are real. and in the time, more than a hundred years, many rogue waves have washed such lava foundations, belief systems have collapsed and been replaced. some events can never be foreseen.
when the tide height's right, you may see this sight. a causeway to black rocks in a warm pacific ocean. lava flowed; it flowed again. we wandered, free as wind. beside the sea, a safe and easy place to set our tired feet, walking in our city shoes, smelling wonderful salty breezes.
forever, it flowed to the sea: hot orange rock, thick liquid rolling, down to the sea, too hot to imagine. bright orange in darkness, flowing lava makes such a festive nighttime show for all the tourists. steam hisses as liquid rock hits the ocean waves. cooling boulders fall even further, under the waves until something stops them.
a beach with no name, where the lava flowed down to the sea, a secret place, not on any map, but a friendly local told us we should go. such a quiet, private place in paradise! no other tourists, we listened to waves smashing on lava rocks the sound of seabirds and the south pacific! a beach with no name, where the lava flowed down to the sea, a secret place, not on any map
waves in the water, smashing on a lava shore, hot tropical sunshine leaves me wanting more. a wall separates us from each other and our world. a return to those lava islands, sea colours splashing around the rocks swirled. those times have passed; those times may not return. we always try but sometimes fail to learn.
once in a long time, the wave you tried to photograph is exactly right as your mind saw it, is there in the camera. frozen, mid-air, stopped and you see everything as it was, and you want to shout, really really loud. did i mention, it doesn't happen often? the horizon clearly curves, downwards at the ends, when you get high enough you see it. sometimes we need to see things from a little higher up, than our usual position to see things as they really are.
from way up there i could see for miles. the horizon curved. (nothing flat there) the view was fine. island paradises are sweet spots for a quick visit. why do i always want to go home about two weeks after arriving? beautiful ocean blue green and cloudy skies. gorgeous place with stories everywhere... tropical rain keeps things green pirates died of thirst across the way. fifteen men on a dead man's chest. it was over there, on that beach. and then the wind blew up, furious! we had to go.