Two cormorants perch. Their wings firmly folded, lest they be blown from their vantage point. Surrounded by a symphony of surf thunder, shingle growl and wind howl.
White horses vault weathered timbers, like steeplechasers. Shattering into a salt spray. Under their impetus the shingle is on the march, toward Beachy Head. Restrained only by ranks of gnarled guardsman groynes.
Between each wooden headland a crescent shaped bay is sculpted. Which climbs steeply clear of the seething crests.
To provide sanctuary, for a few remaining traditional beach-launch pot boats. Which, like their fellow fishers, the cormorants, roost out of reach of the waves.
Small craft sailors reel across the writhing waters. Bobbing and weaving, as if the daily rum ration has been doubled, in celebration of their landfall.
They seek the still waters, which lie within Sovereign Harbour's lock gates. Where the visitors pontoon steadily fills, with craft awaiting their weather window for the Dover Strait.
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