young

Sometimes, when he stared hard at the horizon, he could see clear across to the other side. The dark shapes that smudged the even line of the ocean were mountains, or perhaps promontories, riding high and magnificent upon the vastness of the water. On cloudless days, when the sky seemed so blue, so clear, as to seem implausible but through the musters of artifice, the shapes on the far edge of the sea even took on colour; deep, verdant green; the kind that births notions of mammoth trees, tangled masses of man-sized roots, scrambling lianas decked crazily in blooms that only really exist in botanical gardens, or glossy magazines, picture-perfect; the works of a rampant biology.

When the skies were angry, these far-aways were something else entirely; bare, granitic cliffs exploding upward from feral waters, quartz and orthoclase glistening like charred metal, thrown into sudden relief by occasional flashes of lighting. All said, wet, unforgiving, cold, but as with all things subjective, brimming with their own brand of harsh beauty. When the weather was calmer, a powerful telescope could probably catch the climbing guy, typically clinging to the rock face with one arm whilst feeling for purchase with the other, pitons and carabiners dangling heavily from his belt clip. He sweats profusely with effort, is rather gratuitously only half-dressed, and doesn't seem to be having an easy time of it. Maybe that's why he comes back again and again - no challenge, no value - or maybe he comes back because it's just so damned beautiful.

When it was dark, he couldn't really make anything out for sure; the maps showed nothing more than open water in any case, but it didn't stop him imagining. Alone, in the night, limbs buried in the cool sand, he looked to the open horizon, heard only the wind in his ears, and saw everything.