I was never fond of the ocean.

My brother often went when he felt lonely or distraught. He said it calmed him listening to the pulse of the waves. “Just listen,” he told me. “You’ll find an answer there.” I tried for endless years. I waited in silence, or in uproar, and yet the same lapping was indifferent to my demeanor. I left with less patience than before, so I stopped going. I stopped going to a lot of things now that I think of it. Time passed with more sympathy than the sea. At least for a while.

Words cannot express why I wandered down to the beach that day. Rain spat with fitful bursts and the sky was enveloped in a low, ashen veil. It was cold, still March and the lakes hadn’t finished thawing yet. But I felt compelled. I left my cottage upon the rooster’s second crow and set out first for the cliffs overlooking the beach. The grass flowed evenly in the wind, lapping at my ankles with each step, all the while mud clung to my boots. As the precipice neared, the grass thinned and the mud mixed with rock until all that lay beneath my feet were aged stones. The ground narrowed, then ended. I stood upon the edge and looked down. The waves crashed onto the shore, each breaking with more ferocity than the last. Then my stare shifted to those black sands below, paved more smoothly with each surge. The foam would stay for a moment and then melt until gone from sight, leaving the sand with a glassy onyx sheen. My knees ached, so I sat on the rugged crag, dangling my feet over the edge. I slipped my wrinkled hands to my pockets, and sat hunched, my gaze fixed to the horizon.

Silence. Hours seemed to pass, but I still heard nothing. The wind still brushed through my silver hair, and the waves still crashed with unceasing force. And that obsidian beach. It still lay untrodden upon. I briefly shut my eyes. I didn’t even know why I had come.

I never liked the beach. My brother often went when he was too tired to sail. He liked the softness of it below his feet, but I always thought it grating. He would dig as a child, always going further and further. Once he got so far down, I couldn’t get him out without a rope. I would scramble to the boat and snatch some of the rigging only to clumsily sprint back. It worked well enough, but my father was furious when I forgot to return it. I don’t remember him much. He was a very quiet man and a smile was absent from his rugged face long before my time. My brother thought he was funny though. I failed to recognize the joke.

The rain seemed to pick up now and the wind flung it sideways. It howled now in wails over whispers.

But of what whispers, and what wails?

Perhaps the beach knew. I rose to my feet with my knees cracking as aged timber, and looked out once more. Then I turned my back and marched away from the cliffs.

There was a path down, but I was a half hour walk. I had seen a shorter route a few years prior, but never dared try it. There was a sinkhole to the east that sat against the crags. Time lent the wall to a crack just large enough for a person to squeeze through. The hole used to fill and freeze over, but now drained out to the beach. I wondered what it looked like now after all these years. I don’t know why, but I walked east. The grass and mud returned until the sinkhole lent visage. The edges were still ridged, but angled enough to slide down safely. I looked around for a moment to see if anyone was nearby. Then I began my descent. I slid down slowly, the loose earth slipping and tumbling below my feet. There was no rope to pull me up now. I reached the bottom and saw the somber split in the rock face. Light shone through in dull rays and I could barely glimpse the waves on the other side. I was sure I could fit through, but barely. My heart raced now. My limbs were heavy, so I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing. All I could hear was wind howling above.

I never liked tight spaces. My brother never minded. He thought they always led to adventure and secret passages. He would have liked this, I think. I calmed and opened my eyes. The water was at my ankles. It was cold. What overflowed spilled outward through the slit. I looked back up the sinkhole. There was no way out, perhaps only a way forward. So I marched forward with one lumbering step. And then another, until my hand slipped between the rocks and I squeezed half of my body inside. The gap was small, but I inched through bit by bit. I felt myself nearly get stuck a number of times, but never enough to stop me. The wind faded, and the sea rose in its roars. It sounded faint, but somehow ever closer. Another step. Another slide. The water was deeper now, rushing through at the height of my knees.

What if I got stuck?

Would anyone know?

Would anyone remember?

I couldn’t think of that, only the beach. A pocket caught and tore. I paused and glanced down to its frayed seams and now spider webbed threads. My brother got me that jacket. I looked back up and toward the exit. It was close now, shining with a brightness stronger than anywhere before. My hand reached the end as the walls folded to an edge. I looked out to the shore. The draining water had worn a trench to the sea in its years. The sand around was shaped into an embankment of sorts. I wrapped my hand tight around the rim and pulled. I slid out slowly, but with a consistent pace. Right arm. Right leg. Torso. Left arm. But the last leg. It was stuck. The ankle was wedged somewhere beneath the water. I pulled but nothing gave. Twisting and wiggling it failed too. I grabbed the leg and tried lifting it. That seemed to work some. A bit more. Just a bit. Then It jerked free. I lost my balance and plunged into the water. My head dipped under the water and my body was carried by the torrents. I flailed for a moment, but regained my footing and sprung from the water. I reached out and climbed out, then collapsed on the beach, breathless and shivering. I gazed only to the sky. It had changed little.

The wind however—that had changed. It flew in gentle wisps through my drenched clothes. It seemed to whisper. I sat up. My hands sunk into the sand and grabbed a handful. I held them in my lap. They were so endlessly black. I saw a world in their granular mountains, sparkling slightly from the dim light. I wanted my brother to see. But I didn’t remember where he went. I needed to find him.

I never liked the wind. My brother told me it held secrets you could only hear in still moments. He lost a pocket watch when we were walking one day. Maybe that’s why he liked to dig. He never seemed worried about it. Perhaps he thought the wind would tell him. I hoped it would talk to me. I sat still, closed my eyes, and listened. The rain had stopped now. The noise was overwhelming at first, but it soon separated. I heard everything at once, but isolated in a sense. I heard my name faintly called in the air. The cliffs groaning with tumbling stones, the waves calming as the storm subsided, and the winds reminding me of old times. Times where it didn’t hurt to run or where I could see without glasses. Where my father would tell us stories in a firelight cabin. Where my brother would sail every weekend and return with nets bursting with Atlantic Cod. Cod was my favorite. I didn’t remember what it tasted like. My eyes opened and gazed out to the sea. The sounds quieted. Nothing was left in its absence. No answers. I sighed, not frustrated this time, just — tired.

I wanted to go home.

My hands fell back to the sand and dug in again. I rocked back and forth for some time. Irritation swelled slightly, but I tensed my hands in the grains to quell it. A sharp pain bit my palm, and I snapped it from the ground. A tiny dot of blood leaked from the puncture. I looked back down to the sand and softly grabbed it. There was something hard in the pile. I brushed the silt away to reveal a faint metallic shimmer. It was a pocket watch. The brass was worn and flaked. The hand no longer worked, and some of the chain links were splintered into sharp protrusions. It was strangely beautiful amidst its battered condition. Frozen in time. I heard my name called again. Not the wind this time.

My head shot around to see what was wrong. It was all beach, sea, and rock. Then again. It was a man. I then beheld a silhouette on the beach. He walked without a hunch, but had a limp in his left leg. As he got closer, I saw he had a long gray beard, longer than mine at least. He wore an old naval uniform. It was clear he didn’t use it anymore judging from the wear in the seams and faded dye. He stopped mere feet away from me and looked into my eyes. They seemed sad and tired. Then they shifted down to my hand. His stare changed to surprise and his brow lifted under his cap. “What’s that Tommy?”

“Just a watch. My brother had one just like it a while ago, but he lost it somewhere on the beach.” The man paused.

“Well, where’s your brother?”

“I don’t know, probably sailing,” I said. He’ll be back at the end of the weekend, though, with some cod. Pa will cook it up nice for us.” He sighed and looked to the ground.

“Tommy, you’re drenched. We got to get you home. Here you go, I brought a blanket. Do you know how you got here?” I shook my head. I didn’t move otherwise, just looked at the waves. He wrapped me in it and helped lift me to my feet. We walked along the beach for a while, his arm around my shoulders. It was strange. I didn’t mind it.

“How’d the watch show up?”

“Just in the sand, not far underneath it. I don’t remember—I just listened. I remember my brother always told me to listen.”

“What did it tell you about him?”

“I don’t really know, but I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”