In the predawn gloaming, I pad down the sandy path to the shore. White combers reflect deepest gray horizon across charcoal distances. I scramble over slick sea splashed stones as a fissure splits the sky and silver light spills in from the heavens. Black and gray clouds shroud headland, a lone wisp of ashen rain darkens nearby water, as dim crash of waves resonates in my chest.
The sea is choppy. The spray is sharp. Periwinkles, like porcupine spines, point out over red garnet rock, snailing my pace. I pause in the gray at the edge of the gray, chill water bracing my feet. With mask clamped tight, I submerge and kick down into hole in reef through leaden foam, startling dark fish.
I’m battered against rough gray hard foamy something, and with trace of steely blood seeping away in the swell, I’m fearing sharks. There’s a cray in the pot but my lungs are bursting and I surface into ashen dawn foam, gulp air and return.
With gloved hand grasping the gorgeous twisting purply redness, I inspect underside and thrust him into waiting catchbag, then climb into the great gray morning, dreaming of breakfast.