Drifting in dark water, lost in the sea's total embrace, plunging down through the depths, then bursting between the wave's heave and swell, scent of fish and weed, taste of salt. Floating under the black star-marked sky. No sound of human voice. How long since the ship, his refuge of wood and metal, had given up its hold on life and sank with gurgling, bubbling protest? What had happened, where were his companions? Had they slid down into the deep green caverns, or were they out there in the blackness clinging to life? Tiny fingers of sealife caught against him as he moved with the motion of the waters. Had any time passed? What was time now; the world was the sea, the sea was his master. He was tired but somehow the waves kept him afloat, as if they were of one mind and that was to bear him to a destination of their choosing. Now his salt-sore eyes glimpsed dark shapes, could this be land? Ahead the agitated sea crashed and roared with anger as it met unmoving obstacles. It was the shore, it must be; he glimpsed white surf in the crests of breaking waves, and pointed black rocks. Had the sea taken him this far only to be sacrificed on their jagged spikes? His feeble attempts to swim were ignored by the waves, and he was dropped where they dictated. He felt the rocks under him, their slime and roughness, the strong smell of seaweed and sea creatures, the sucking of the sand and pebbles. With his last lingering strength he crawled and dragged himself forward. His skin ripped on the razor-edged stones, the buckled and ridged monuments of earth's past. The waves hissed and boiled around him, hurrying him on, he would like to fall asleep but they would not allow it. Finally his feet found flat, smooth sand and then sleep so eagerly awaited overtook him. He awoke to warm sun, distant sounds of gulls and humans, figures on the horizon, help could be summoned at last. Stumbling along he called and waved, voice hoarse from seawater, bare feet sinking into soft sand. The figures were unheeding, why didn't they notice his frantic efforts to claim their attention? The group of people were totally oblivious to his presence. Exhausted he turned to the shore and the sand where he had lain and now hurried from, and in a second he understood perfectly. There was no sign, no impression, no trace of the progress of a living person. Behind the promenade lies the old church, under the mossy boundary walls rest very old stones recording once living, breathing and now forgotten souls. One reads 'Here lies Thomas Lansdown, sailor, drowned in the year of our Lord 1753'. The sea still holds Thomas in its power and he will re-enact the end of his life as long it wishes him to, and this is the year of our Lord 2007. | 
