Whenever I watch the sunlight flicker on the gloomy green sea I’m reminded of the dead and the distant. Old friends, family members and the loved ones that got away. I’m not sure why, I’ve never known anyone who drowned. It always just seemed more conducive to such reverie than looking up to the stars or even, god forbid, down at gravestones. In any case, far more appealing than worming a hook or the bloody slaughter of success.

The rod in my hand was just an excuse to be sat on the harbour wall, legs dangling, heels tapping the algae of the high water mark. What lay beneath the surface was a fascinating scene, but I was happy for it to stay down there. The huge fish I imagined nibbling on or around my hook, was no doubt the shifting tide or man made debris from littering cruise ships, surely nothing could survive down there. Certainly nothing I'd want to eat. I caught an eel once and after struggling numerous times to get the hook out, I left it to die still hanging on the line. It was surprising and strangely inspiring to watch him twist and thrash for so long before eventually accepting the grim inevitable suffocation. Luckily there was no-one else around that day, no-one to chastise me, no-one to tell me that 'eels have feelings too you know'.

No such solitude today, the harbour was bustling with beer-gutted loudmouths and hyperactive children. Stuffing their faces with crisps and guzzling carbonated piss. Screaming, running, throwing lug worms at each other.

I was cursing my decision to come down on such a sunny day, when an old man perched next to me on the wall. Not close enough that I could ask him to move, but sadly I realised not too far away to talk. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable chat, but when he finally spoke I was surprised by his tone - it was soft and serene, like a storyteller. Mad words dripped from his mouth like honey:  he spoke of the sea of lost souls, sunken submarines and of a circus runaway named 'the human owl' he had met on the docks in Bilbao. He didn't seem to care if I was listening or not, he certainly wasn't looking to me for answers or encouragement.

The rolling tone of his voice was hypnotic and alluring. Stoned on a tide of pure madness, I drifted in and out of consciousness on his words, and slowly floated away from my location on the harbourside. It was impossible to calculate the length of his soliloquy in minutes or by any other means, but when he eventually reached what some would class as a conclusion I was alone again and far out to sea. My significant frame jam-stuffed into a red and white striped rubber ring, a relic maybe from the titanic or some other doomed vessel.

I considered shouting for help, but something told me I wasn't alone. After a few beats of silence a voice spoke from behind me, "You should listen to him", but by the time I had spun myself around, splashing like a child, there was no-one there. "What he's telling you may not be important, but it might just save your life." Curious I thought, but its hardly the first time I've heard voices.

From my position in the water I could just about make out the harbour, I recognised a few landmarks but couldn't locate myself. I was unsure, as you probably are, whether this was really me, bobbing around beyond the buoys and the fishing boats, or rather some metaphysical transcendence. Which ever the case, I viewed the shore with a detached composure I had never experienced on dry land. Further from the subject but with a sharper focus, like an astronaut contemplating earth from space.  I made a mental note to buy a boat should I ever make it back.

I kicked my feet occasionally but the rubber ring let me float easily, rising gradually with the tide and then falling. The shore sporadically concealed by the swell. The gentle undulation was soothing and I am sure that I would have been lulled asleep had I not had a strange feeling that each peak and each trough was increasing in size much faster than the tide would normally dictate. Of course I had nothing to worry about, as I was way out past the breaking waves, but the rate at which they were growing was astonishing.

The tide continued to increase in size and stature. And with it I felt my shoulders widen and chest inflate. Within the sea, I felt at one. The cascading white tipped breakers seemed to hit the harbour wall propelled more by my will than anything else. I felt my limbs begin dissolving, each movement became a current and for a few trippy moments I was the sea. Watching with proud fascination as my waves began to creep onto the flat top of the docks.

I couldn't help laughing, enjoying the show, as the fishermen hurriedly gathered their belongings and began running further inland to safety. "Run!" I shouted, "Run, you stinking landlubbers!", as huge crests came crashing down with increasing ferocity. Again and again they slammed down with authoritative power. The metal safety barriers and rusting ladders, all were swallowed effortlessly by the tumbling foam. It over-turned a boat that was moored there and slammed it into the wall; splintered timber from the hull floated back out past me. The mad galloping surging floods pressed on further, into the car parks and began licking the brick work of the once sought-after bungalows positioned so close to the sea. The maelstrom showed no abating and the momentum of the tide pushed on harder and faster, it began to smash windows and push down fences. It pushed over cars and bent lampposts. The division between sea and land became indeterminable - the shoreline engulfed by the enormous waves.

By now the anonymous human stick figures had all escaped or been swallowed. I saw no-one dragged back with the waves but I couldn't be sure no-one had perished. My mind jumped to the old man, the source of irritation only minutes earlier now became a concern, I hoped he had escaped the floods safely, but of course I wasn't even sure of his existence.  As I scanned the water for any drowning bodies or desperate waving hands, I noticed the swell re-settling to something more fitting for the geographic location. Bizarrely within seconds the sea had settled to millpond calm.

I saw my chance and grabbed it - thrashing a clumsy front crawl back to shore before the tide picked up again. It was a while since I had swum any distance and it showed, especially swimming as I was,  fully clothed. By the time I got back to the harbour and climbed the rusting ladder to safety my breath was painfully short.

Any other anglers were gone; dog walkers no more. Any bicycles or other signs of life had been washed away and were now no doubt slowly floating to the sea bed, along with the other debris from the modern world. I couldn't help feeling that this was an improvement. No children shouting, no car horns, just a few birds timidly twittering, all probably asking each other what the fuck just happened.

I searched for my tackle box and rod but everything was gone, in its place puddles of water covered every surface. Seaweed and shells littered the concrete wall; strange sea creatures spewed from the depths lay gasping. Far too ugly to eat I thought, as I kicked them back into the water. Realising I had nothing to pack away I turned to walk home along the now deserted streets, all the while wondering if there would be anyone at home when I arrived to ask me if I had caught anything.

THE END