2011: A young, funny, dynamic, 19-year-old friend of my step kids had gone missing at Christmas, a few
weeks earlier, apparently having jumped off the Menai Suspension Bridge, but no-one really knew for sure; there were no answers and no closure for his devastated family and close friends.
I have always gone to the sea for solace and comfort, but after this event, the sea represented something very different – swallowing, concealing. I was thinking about how lucky I was to simply be there, to breathe, to see, to live.
The sunshine was sparkling on the water, the grass was lush and green, clouds scudded across a now clear sky and there was a cool crispness to the air; my fingers felt it, my face felt it, every bit of me was now awake and invigorated, but I wished I knew what had happened to the lad. We all guessed at scenarios but nobody dared say anything, living in hope that our worst fears would be proved wrong. It was very hard for me to be near the sea so soon after his disappearance.
I moved on to the main estuary at Newborough. The sky was changing already; the forecasted week of rain had started to develop on the horizon, a darkness drew closer and the sparkle was gone. There were still sheets of hopeful, bright patches of sky over the hills, and the last intensity of sunshine was spilling over the peninsula. I walked in shallow water across the open estuary, surrounded by sheets of mirrored sky that contained a lonely half moon looking down at me.’
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