a harbour - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The harbour is creaking boats on waves and gulls that fill the air with beating wings and cries. It is the salty breeze and the new white paint along the sea wall. The ocean brings life, movement and a place to rest the eye away from the bustle of life. It is where the clouds roam freely above - the view unhindered by the rising of hills. But above all it is where we meet, us friends, to chat over fish and chips, to laugh at the craziness of life and still to revel in her beauty.
The waves of the harbour come day and night, creating music better than a Julliard master. The ocean never tires, never misses a beat, and through brilliant days and darkest nights the percussion of the shore keeps on - a lullaby for anyone and everyone. The boats bob and creak, tugging on their moorings to the piers. Behind them are the sherbet coloured houses that are tall with pointed roofs, clustered in like old friends reassured by their closeness.
Under the wintry air and the sky that has born black clouds since November came, the harbour is as grey as a newspaper picture. The sea has given up her blue, the stones show no russet colours and the boats have taken on the monochrome look of old movies. Even the air tastes more dull. The wind whips salt into eyelashes and onto exposed skin and all the while the trams run along the beachside with a clatter and whir.
The harbour is typical of the region, shallow shore with waters utterly clear. From the top every fish and rock can be seen, all in a turquoise hue. Melody watches, bewitched, utterly in love with the Mediterranean. Behind her locals sit at the cafes, eating fish, drinking wine, smiling broadly, laughing. She sits up and breaths in deeply, so this is life... real life...
The harbour is a bite from the land, as if the Gods were hungry eons ago. Dimitry peers over the wall, almost believing he can see the teeth marks left behind. Under the clouds, in the thick air that promises summer rain, the sea is a more wintry hue that it has been of late, devoid of the brilliant flashes the sun bestows.
The sun illuminates the water, brilliant white over turquoise, beauty beyond measure. Every moment is rich, from the way the wind moves loose hair to the crunch of pebbles underfoot - every one of them unique. The sky is a new painting from moment to moment. Every passer by is a person, fully human, capable of laughter and joy. Yet somehow everyone is distracted, hurrying, eyes cast down - as if they had been beamed into paradise but didn't have the time to notice.
"I should go diving." Jun said, the reddish sunlight making his white hair look almost pink and his purple skin look almost magenta. "We do that in my country." He stared out over the metal railing he was leaning against into the vast ocean that surrounded them on all sides.
"Not in this country," the Cygnat replied. "But you wouldn't want to." He kicked a pebble off the deep-sea marina and watched it sink until it was invisible, trapped in the murky water with the ballenitas and the taronas and the skeletons.
"Why not?" the Yunmin smiled. "You could take an air tank. Be a deep-sea diver."
"Do you know of our customs?" the silver-furred strongman asked. Jun shook his head. "A dead man is pulled into the abyss by ten iron weights."
"That's a lot of iron."
"Some choose alternate materials." He stared down at the reeded deck, trying to imagine how many ancestors could be below his feet alone. He shook his head. Jun seemed horrified, looking into the murky blue with a different perspective.
"I don't think I want to swim here any more."
From the bow of the boat the harbour comes into focus like a high-definition movie. Above the gulls swoop, crying in that repetitive way they do. The houses are identical in shape and size but no two are the same shade. They are yellow, lilac, blue, red, orange and every shade in between. Each one is not only a house but also a shop run by the folks that live above, selling ice-cream, meat, vegetables or fine leather goods. From the bright yellow lampposts hang the flags of European nations and in the town square there is a market. I can't see the fish from here, but I know from my many visits that they are there. Lying on those tables, silver scales to the sun, is the morning's catch. They are fresher than I can hope for back home, were the food has been frozen and breaded with seasoning and sugar some months before. The air here is fresher than in my dreams back in the city. One day I will come here and never leave. One day.