Breakers rush through the fallen arched roof of the West Pier, make dynamic shots for stooping photographers. Reckless waves catch them out and they all go home with wet feet.
The wind roars past my ears no matter which way I turn my head. Stones prop open my notebook where the elastic won't hold against this blast. The pages catch and flap, incessant. I look down at the words I just wrote. They move with the page. It looks like they are being written without me.
The sun catches the red light on the end of pier buoy as it lurches at an angle forced by the race of this tide. Unable to sway back to upright, the weight of the tide leans in, makes it stick on red.