Lucy Pearce - She of the Sea

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5% of the royalties from this book will be shared between the following charities to support those working tirelessly on the issues raised in this book:

• > Ballycotton RNLI, our local lifeboat charity.
• > Clean Coasts Ballynamona, a local environmental charity which is dedicated to this part of the East Cork coast.
• > Greenpeace, an international charity dedicated to protecting our oceans.
• > As I Am, an Irish charity supporting autistic people and their families.
• > Mermaids, a UK charity supporting gender-diverse children and their families.

T he sea makes itself felt, even when it is not seen. It is there in the low-hanging mist trapped in the valley, in the browning boglands dotted with migrant birds, in the salt wind that buffets the rooks.

The thorn trees lean inland, after a lifetime of salt winds sculpting them, silent ciphers of the sea beyond the skyline where the fields end and the cliffs drop away. The statue of Mary, Star of the Sea, looks out from her rocky grotto, arms open towards the ocean. A lone pink thrift flower bobs in the breeze at her feet, white gulls wheeling over the golden stubble of the newly harvested wheat fields behind her. Mackerel clouds swim against a powder blue sky, the last swifts darting.

I pass the graveyard, which stands on a blind bend, mossy weather-worn stones leaning at strange angles. Around the corner, the mountains appear as if by magic, purple and hazy in the distance, and then the grand reveal that takes my breath away every day, as the bay sweeps into sight, startling in its turquoise majesty. Expansive and wild, it calls the adventurous spirit to follow it to freedom.

I cannot resist. I take the winding boreen down to meet it: a road only wide enough for one car, and unused enough that there is grass growing up the middle. The hedges hug the sides of the car: fat red fuchsia buds dangle like Christmas baubles against the green bushes. The last of the montbretias fiery flowers are fading. I park and walk to the silver sands.

I am called by four friendly voices their faces obscured by the low-hanging September sun. Every day, all year, these women gather, to swim, to talk, to escape from the challenges of lives that sometimes seem insurmountable, emerging from their daily baptism in hope for a better day.

The waves crash, the birds wheel.

I breathe it in.

The Call of the Sea

The sea that calls all things unto her calls me,
and I must embark.

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Sea Shell

C ome, join me. Ive been waiting for you. Slip off your shoes. Feel your toes sink into the sand. Stand with me here on the beach and look out at the vast expanse of blue sea receding into sky. Breathe in the freshness of the air and let your shoulders drop as you do. Feel yourself small and insignificant, yet part of something magnificent.

Come down to the waters edge, let the waves lap at your toes and the wind play with your hair. Then let us walk together, until something catches your eye, a white shell with blushes of pink.

You lift the shell to your ear and marvel: the rush of the sea is right here in your hands.

You had forgotten, or maybe never knew, that everything that has been shaped by the sea holds within it a saline memory: the song of the sea. Each shell, each piece of glass tumbled by the waves, each pebble worn smooth by the tides. Every time you hold it and listen with your whole self, a portal opens to the inner sea. With a pebble you feel it in the solidity of your own bones. In some shells you see it reflected in their iridescence. And in the rarest still you hear it, captured for all time, no matter how far from the shore it is taken.

You hand it to me. I hold it to my own ear and listen.

What is it trying to tell me? I wonder.

I offer you this book, as a naming of the magics of the sea. I invite you to experience the reading of it as a walk along a seashore scattered with treasures. Consider each part a pebble for your pocket, each poem a shell for your ear. You might feel the desire to walk its full length in one go. Or pick out the shells that most catch your eye on each walk. As we stroll together, you might catch sight of a tail above the waves, drop this book to the sand and run out into the depths to swim with it.