Often I would go down and sit by the ocean in the mornings; the sea would sing me history, telling tall tales of Irish lore with every crashing of its waves against the shore. Burying my bare feet in the cool coarse sand I would huddle more closely in my thick coat against the winds. The sea was the orator and I was the recorder, writing down each sentence it breathed to me.
The sea is at its most beautiful in the mornings, especially when it wakes angrily on a windy day, the fog still crowding the sky and drowning out the sights of clouds, it’s like a passage straight from Legend. The best time to arrive – although most people never experience it – is first thing in the morning, stepping onto the shore just as the sun begins to touch the sky.
I loved our mornings together more than I loved the afternoons. In the mornings we would both wake early (morning birds), tangled in lovers’ embrace, our legs hooked and our hands intertwined. We wouldn’t speak at first, just smile sleepily and revel in sensation, our bodies pressed against each other, stirring to life.
I always broke eye contact first, half-afraid half-awed by the intensity in your gaze and you always kissed me first – desperate for every form of contact. You’d be inside me before we’d even said good morning, shifting slowly, your muscles stretching with each movement. Our bodies were always stiff in those first moments but it never took long to melt together.
Those were the moments I loved (you) best.