Wind and waves

    Summer is certainly behind us and autumn shudders with awareness of winter soon to arrive.  Powerful winds hammered the north of the island last night and the sound of their fury as they whipped up the sea slipped in and out of my dreams. I woke early this morning to find the storm had abated quite a bit though the wind was still whipping at the trees and and around the house,and waves still rose high on the Strait, their tips showering sprays of startling silver white against the gray of the sky. There was a restless calm in the air which I was certain wouldn’t last long.  Today was garbage day (every Friday) and pickup is generally early, though when the weather is really bad the collectors are late more often than not, anyway I dragged our garbage bin up the driveway - taking advantage of the lull -  to the road above us, the steep climb keeping me at an angle, forcing me to see nothing more than my boots as I chugged upwards. When I arrived at the top and looked back I was rewarded with a wonderful view of a raging sea, thundering waves and a wall of rain coming straight towards us from the direction of the mainland. I thrilled to it, but quickly, and carefully, made my way back down to the house. I couldn't make myself go inside right away, I needed to stand by the shore, to drink in the powerful drive of the wind, the thundering roar of the waves  and the threatening advance of that wall of rain. A few heavy beads of rain began to dance on my coat, warning me,  and just as the deluge hit I escaped into the house. Comfortable and warm by the window, I stood and watched the battle of wind and wave. Later I went to take some pictures of the sea but unfortunately the waves  were far from their earlier magnificence; but to simply stand before the sea is always 'wondrous fair' no matter the season or the weather. I would dearly loved to have taken some photos of a storm that pounded us last year. The power of the sea was no more apparent than in the way it tossed about enormous trees as though they were simply troublesome twigs standing in its way. One particularly huge log, likely broken from a boom north of us, was tossed so high into the air by the waves that it sailed up and and over the shore edge, where it lay for a moment across the arms of the old bench -  retired now to spend its last rusting years gazing ever eastward. Unable to hold the massive weight of the log  the old bench crumbled under. The poor old thing certainly took a beating; one of its arms was shattered and it now spends its final days held together with binding wire. It stills comforts dreamers between its rusted arms, and is always protective of those who seek solace from the worries of the day, in the timelessness of the sea.