This piece was long-listed for the WritersByTheSea 2025
It didn’t howl or tear at her hair – there was no need. It was simply cold and unforgiving, an icy presence that made itself known without theatrics. The sea was slate-grey, angry in its way too; familiar, like a friend whose moods no longer surprised you.
Her boots crunched over frosted gravel thrown up by recent storms, the tide low, too low – like her mood.
Behind her, Liam followed. Not too far, not too close. Their silence had worn thin since the night before – a quarrel half-formed in frustration, sharp with misunderstanding, and the kind of weariness that accumulates when the days grow short and cold, and the nights grow longer and colder still.
They hadn’t spoken since rising. A surreptitious glance here and there, each refusing to cede an inch. The kind of silence that settles like fog … heavy and sapping.
Maeve pulled her scarf tighter and reached the shelter they always used to leave their things. Concrete and unforgiving, it stood in the car park overlooking the bay with a timeworn dignity. She untied her boots, pulled off her socks, and stood barefoot on the cold stone. Her breath came in clouds. She stripped off her coat, sweater, leggings – down to a black swimsuit that hugged her like a second skin. Goosebumps rose instantly. She didn’t wait.
Liam arrived as she strode angrily toward the distant water. An angry sadness enveloped him as he flung his clothes aside, leaving them strewn across the cold concrete. He hurried after his wife, catching up with her as they both neared the uninviting grey and white surf, roaring and taunting them like their recent argument.
As always, the first steps were the worst. The mind had to steel itself, to force the body to do penance. Toes froze at the first contact, then came the unmerciful push – limbs forcing their way through the tug of the waves, pulling, pushing, twisting, trying to dislodge and envelop them.
The first full-body wave stole her breath. It always did. She released her hold on the ground and gave herself to the strength of the sea as it submerged her, then spat her back up when it had its fill. The shock was absolute, the cold exhilarating … a baptism. She surfaced gasping as her chest constricted with the cold, reoriented herself to face the next wave, barely time to get her limbs in motion before the next rolled over her. Her limbs moved with purpose, embracing each wave as they roared ashore like an army.
Beside her, Liam emerged among a jumble of surf, letting out a yelp. That always amused her. Like dolphins, they dived through each advancing wave, allowing it to pass over them. No words. No contact. A couple – battling, yet embracing the elemental force of a winter storm.
When they emerged, shivering and red-skinned, the world had shifted. Not changed entirely, but softened. As if the sea had absorbed their fight and left behind only the simplicity of shared breath and numbing fingers reaching for towels.
Back in the shelter, Maeve wrapped herself in layers and a heavy knit jumper she kept for days like this. Liam, teeth chattering, enveloped himself in a changing robe.
She passed him the thermos without a word. He took it, poured, and handed her the first cup of tea. That, too, was their rhythm. Always hers first.
She smiled into her tea …
“Boiled eggs and toast?” she asked.
In his seventy-second year, Liam had come to believe that the small luxuries were the best.
“Sounds great, love.” Remembering that she liked hers soft on the inside – one of his few culinary skills.
They packed up slowly, like old ships readying for harbour. Liam reached for her hand – cold, gnarled, familiar. She took it without a word.
Together they walked across the frost-bitten car park, leaning slightly into each other, two elderly figures bundled against the wind … toward the warmth of home and soft-boiled eggs…
Warm and soft on the inside.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 