Today after six weeks inland,
indeed is one of coming down the mountain. And of a little forgotten how beautiful it can be from the meadow. The milky blue appears cross-hatched by swell and wind, though tufted here and there with whites of water. Upon rock-edge arrival the waves are blown across the swell so that they seem to coil, the helix effect of a barber's pole. Wherever you focus, there is a movement, patterning together towards the skyline, evoking structures at will, triangles and parallels, if need be a horse, galloping into the foreshore foam. What generous design rules the edge of rock and water, how at home it feels after my exile. Even the sometimes shrouded sun musters enough warmth to cozy the van from the rear. What welcome beams from these lichened stones and these promising patches of green in between. This is no land of rocks unmoving, but of faces in a friendly crowd.
I had forgotten
the sandpaper surface of the sea, with gazillions of waves so petite they look like vibes. The sea is so tranquil, with calms, corridors of lull and a swell that rises out of nowhere to a high panorama ridge until it throws down its weary crest. The surface reflects a jovial light aqua blue and strands of cloudlets are blown to orange by the sun that is about to peak over the Slieve. And those are only the lyrics by my freezing fingertips. I could hallelujah on, the sea is such an inexhaustible source. Now the sun flashes up the foams and carves shadows into the dips, a cormorant sticks out hardly more than its neck, bums up and away. A world too stout for fantasy, of beauty reason would forbid.
When I open my eyes,
it's one of those days with a silver lining. The wind is pushing from the east, so that's where the van is pointed, leaving the rear in negligible draft, the view opening full on the sea. The blow launches veils of spray and a lazy swell drives happy gurgles towards the shore. Seagulls beak-dive, flare up, lit bedazzling against the dark green blue and swerve along skirts of waves, gaining in translucency. Further down, seen from aside, the waves rush, trailing a throw of spray in the wind. And towards dusk the low sunlight skimming articulates the frisky wash in dancing shades.
By the scream of steam
from my kettle’s whistle I can see the wind has changed. Deep inside my kitchen the heavy water thunders like we're under attack. Troupes of gulls fly by and collect down the rolling floor, pummelled over the violence. The white water stretches like a battle zone, smouldering in the meagre sunshine. One awning after the other takes off, tumbles and frolics to its airy closure.
The wind picks up into a storm
and by the direction I figure Doolin is the place to go. Once there I wrestle myself to a vantage point on the massive where the waves are crashing with mighty momentum. The water explodes into the air like firecrackers shooting their trails. The sun shines deep into the spray and in stunning light portrays the anatomy of the blasts.
It's the waves,
again that have gripped me, being simply humongous today and I have photographed nearly all of them. Or so I thought. But when I passed the view of Arkeen, of course I had to stop and shoot its torrential surges. I think no manmade device is capable of such raw and savage fury.
You don't want to come too close, not only because there is no limit to the ocean's grasp, but the mayhem is simply too big to fit into your photo frame. It's tempting to wide-angle them from up-close, clicking upon impact, but while a splash-over is nothing short of uncomfortable the backwash will try to sweep you into the ocean. Once you're thrown back upon the unforgiving rocks inside a 20-ton wave you can wave your 'famous last photographs' goodbye.
Yesterday's pics
were all taken from about 1,500 metres distance, with my telelens. The pics I took today are somewhat closer. Is simple, you just look for a dry spot as close as possible to the uproar and never ever turn your back on the ocean. There is A-drenaline, there is B-drenaline and there is Sea-drenaline. So inexplicably beautiful these hostile forces, the roar, the rise, the rush and the spill. When I'm not shooting pics I stand there, like a conductor before his orchestra. And when I raise my arms the sea rises and so do I.
I was just outside to heat me a kettle for warmth, when I looked at the sea like a farmer knows his cattle.
Oh, yesternight, the moon,
though not full, was very clear and reflected from the water, but in a way I've never seen here before. There was like electricity within the water, very clear light, sparkling lively. I first thought it was bioluminescence, but it was only in the path of the moonlight. This bioluminescence I have seen a few times from the beach of Vlieland, a Dutch island. We gathered up wet sand and threw it into the sea, like a scoop of sparkles.
Once the sea lit up while we were diving in Zeeland, Holland’s most sea-strewn province. We sat on the seabed and when we moved an arm it was trailed with light.
My raving and ranting
on the height of the waves and how they thunder on all day, may get boring, but myself again, I was so enchanted by the aquatic violence that I became part of it. This morning I wanted to get some fresh seawater for antiseptic purposes and the tide was already pretty far in, considering it would be at its highest at 3.10 pm. I wanted to at least partly fill a 5-litre bottle, but the terrace below flooded time and again. So I had to wait and time attempts at quiet intervals which were hardly there. Before me was a pristine view of white in all kinds of shapes, shades and movements. I thought my wide angle could catch all that in one shot, but I couldn't get a single scoop of all that water in my bottle. Knowing what gear is at my disposal has always been my pride and now too I remembered the bottle I had beheaded to keep my peeled spuds in. With this I managed to scoop up a generous measure and poured it into my bottle. That was that, but the seed for today’s endeavour had been planted.
So that's how come
I again have been photographing my upset neighbours all day. But if you really want a wide-angle pic to arrive, you've got to be as close as you can, otherwise it's just a ridge in the distance. Now I knew the tide was coming in and I stood on a terrace about 1.50 metres above the wash. But when you photograph something building up 50 metres away, peering through the viewer with one eye and the other half closed, you can't keep a third eye on the water that is very approaching you. So I was surprised, but not really, but physically I was, when suddenly the water came so near it was up to my crotch. Now I've been in such dire waters before and I know to do two things. One is to hold the camera as far up and away from the water as stretch can reach. The other is to keep standing still. Don't try to run, as you’re liable to misstep and fall on your face. Not good for the camera and it will only get you wetter. So I survived, quite easily actually, but I was wet all over.
Moreover I thought
I had taken more than enough pics; every angle, every formation, every distance I had covered. Or so I thought. But then gulls began to fly along and under the crests of the towering giants. So I mounted my tallest lens and positioned myself at the iron pipe. It's been there longer than I know and used to carry a sign telling you in two decimal places how fined you'd be in euros for dumping waste there. I have beheaded a two-litre bottle and upside-downed it over the top of the pipe, so I can rest my camera upon it while waiting for the right moment.
The waves, however, became higher and came in closer, already hitting my kitchen when the tide had another hour to come in. It was time for 'safety first'. I made the van ready to go, parked it on the safest getaway spot, left the engine running, and kept on clicking.
Half an hour before high tide
I left the meadow, in order to catch the rush hour at Arkeen.
I've never seen water erupting like that there before. I shot it from 1,500 metres away, yet what I saw scared me just by virtue of the immensity of it all. Just before Arkeen the bottom comes up a bit and that's where the monster waves trip and start to lean forward. Then they crash right on the rocks and water is hurled up so high it shoots out of photo frame.
After having spent the night
on higher ground for fear of flooding I drove down towards the meadow. The sun just peeked over the Slieve and warmed up the surf in a soft shade of pink. By the time I had drawn my camera it was gone. This is going to happen more often now as the sun is going up steeper and dawn colourations show before they shift into daylight. I needed not have saved my skin last night by evacuating the premises. A washed-up detergent bottle was still in the same place and the waves now are considerably lower, cleaner-looking too. Yesterday floats of crumbed foam, sometimes like yellow poison, have washed back across the surf and stretch out towards the horizon. Sometimes I mistake pilings for a flock of seagulls, resting or gathering above a bait ball.
Yesternight the moon
was near fullness and stood in a clear sky. Again its reflection path lit up and seemed electric. There is something special about the relationship between light and water. Light beams entering water are 'broken', that is they slightly change direction, so when we see them they break again in our observation. Probably our brain 'corrects' the deviation, but a camera registers the actual occurrence and that we can see 'uncorrected'. By both deviations some light is caught inside the water, lighting it up, just like the strong refraction of a diamond keeps a lot of light inside. That's why photos of rock pools can have such magical effects unseen by the naked eye. A warning though, this, again, is DIY science.
Anyway, that's what could explain my 'electric' observation in moonlit waves, refracted light, reflected from within the water.
This also reminds me of photographs I have taken of clear shallow water in the sun flowing or topped with little wind waves. The projections on the bottom show light magnified between shadow lines. As a matter of fact that's how the luminescent letters of 'Dolphin Address' on top of my website came to be, with all honours to my web mistress, Carola, who devised this luminous idea.
Actually,
a few years ago, before the solar panels on my roof were installed, I had an idea for a high tide alarm. I had found a washed-up, black-tipped pinkish buoy of rubbery complexion that I used as a skippy ball, sitting on it, that big. I wanted to attach a rope to it, looped around the sign-lost pipe with at the other end a series of empty tin cans on top of my van roof. When the water would start pushing up the buoy, and thus come too close, the rope around the pipe would begin to pull the cans across my roof, alerting me to the approaching water. Then some badass stole the buoy.
The tired residue
of washed-out waves are being erased by the feathering touch of an offshore breeze. The tidal climax that was promised for yesterday has made a sloppy visit to my kitchen. But other than the flooding of my brand new gas rings, I told myself so time and again to drill drains in the fish tray housing, the damage was little more than an eyesore. Today gentle greys unite before the eye that reaches for foggy distances unsure. A timid swell is a mere trace of the ferocity of days unending into weeks and the stage once more is set for pop-up observation.