Best to be there at the lowest tide, when the moon's pull is at it's tightest, when you will have the most time because your nervous eye will want to keep the clock in sight. A trembling voice in your head will incessantly recite tide tables, shout out warnings, tell you to hurry, to keep the shore in sight. A neurotic ear will be listening out for the sudden rush and push of the turning tide, when it will splutter in a language full of consonants, urging your reluctant feet to run.
Instinct takes over, in some web and weft of other world and somehow, still in the feint shadow of fear, you are safe in the adventure.
Caves. Strange burrows and tunnels at the foot of towering cliffs, cleft and gouged out by the waves. Imagine - crawl in, wait for the flood, the suck, the draw, the gasp, the spit, the drown. Conjure up the moment before the fall - the splintering crack of chalk opening up to it's first view of sky, the slide of rocks coated in the dust of thin soil, showers of sand littered lethal with grit and slithers of stone, ancient faces of flint flung far out and windowed twists of whelk shells, empty of sound.