Sea - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The sea is more than we see, for she gives us most of the oxygen in our lungs. she wraps her brine around every limb as a mother, only ever asking for our respect and loving care.
The wind had become the orchestral conductor of the sea, sending waves into their crescendos' all through the ballad that was the night. All about us was the perfume of the salty water and the fine spray that came as boldly as any viola flurry. It was as if life herself had entered the water and the energy was so great that this great pulse came upward to form a steady rhythm.
Moving through her depths, I become aware of her currents; the sea is more as rivers in three dimensions with no need of banks. In them are schools of the living, the creation that remained in her watery embrace when we land dwellers sought flowers and the shelter of trees. Though to her fish swimming is as easy as breathing underwater, it is no doubt time for me to return to the waves and the boat that awaits, anchored for my return as it rests upon her steady pulse.
Sabina held tight to the iron railing, her knuckles white. Dressed in her elder brothers squall parker she leant into the gale to feel the white salt spray that came crashing right over the sea wall. Through squinting eyes she drank in the sight of the waves, the foam reflecting the garish lights of the casinos and bars. The roaring and pounding obliterated all other sounds and her mind was awash with exhilaration. A layer of salt was soon encrusted her eyelashes and she could taste it over her cracked lips. She whooped and hollered to the tempestuous sea as if it's raw power was seeping into her every pore. Then came the big one she'd been hoping for, she braced herself for impact. But then the water shrank back down the beach. Her muscles had frozen in place, there was no running away. In that frozen moment she faced the black wall of water, she recalled the waves she used to run into as a child, how they engulfed her and dragged her up the pebbled beach gasping for air...
The children stood like statues on the shore. A fringe of lace spread over the cold, firm beach, wetting their feet right through their state-issued canvass shoes. Chills ran right up their spindled many-hued legs. Not long before it had been a still night sky, but here at sunrise the air vibrated with the rhythmic pounding of the waves and a salty wind blew. A dull mist spread onshore, partially obliterating their view. Although the sea was calm some of them shook with fear, never before had they seen such a body of water, never before had their eyes been able to wonder so far into the horizon. Somehow they had not been expecting the blue to so closely reflect the sky, the water in their streams was clear and down the well it was just inky until pulled up on the crank shaft. When the eldest was about to steel himself to lead them away into the unknown, tell them he was wrong in his interpretation of the song, the brine parted sending white foam cascading down the crown of a submarine.
The boat pitched and rolled like a frantic child thrashing about in the waters of the choppy and wallowing sea.Here and there massive crests topped with white froth charged through the sea.The immene receptacle of water pulsated with life and seemed to smile a mocking smile at the plight of the helpless sailors.
The gentle waves scattered the evening sun like the sequins that lay scattered from the festival. Litter tumbled over the cooling sand, some catching on an soggy pile of garish faux fur, a pantomime horse costume. The occupants were now more than black dots on the blue-green horizon, escaping to the freedom of the next island. Their legs kicked furiously at the fathoms deep salty brine, but they had not gotten this far on muscle power alone; and that was the brilliance of their plan. They had stolen the costume from the deserted theatre and proceeded to the desalination plant. The new machines had been plastered all over the news, only three pounds each and able to produce a litre of potable water every five minutes, sucked in from five sides and blasted out a pipe in the back...like a jet.
Next morning a strong wind was blowing, and the sea was gray and white, with long breaking waves, across which the Dakota was racing half-buried in spray. Very few of the passengers were on deck to enjoy the wild scenery. Every wave seemed to be making enthusiastic, eager haste to the shore, with long, irised tresses streaming from its tops, some of its outer fringes borne away in scud to refresh the wind, all the rolling, pitching, flying water exulting in the beauty of rainbow light.
You couldn't tell where the grey skies ended and the grey seas began. Grey clouds swirled in a tumult of stormy air above, blue-grey waves swirled below, crashing into the side of the iron-grey ship. Grey faces tinged with green staggered about the decks on bandy legs as the ship rocked in great figures of eight.
Ocean still as a mill pond, like a slumbering giant, powers untapped, muscles unflexed, dozing, dreaming, caressing the beach as a mother to her newborn, until the wind whips it up into tempestuous waves, powers unleashed, tumult of waves, roaring, smashing into the beach with unchecked fury, pounding, smashing.
Salty air whips ruddy cheeks, biting, harsh, angry rolling waves, crash, smash against gaily painted hull, dancing, taunting, menacing, figures of eight, lurching, pitching, pitiless, beckoning, engulfing, endless, torment, deck awash, sting of salt spray, cold, clammy, hands raw, adrenaline overload, fearful, exhilarated, clutching ropes, bucking bronco, unforgiving, relentless, merciless, determined foe, claiming the reckless, callous, remorseless, watery grave.
Back on the Flottille, after entering the foreboding mist, the now fully risen sun was lost from sight. So was the entire blue morning, replaced by a somber, slate-colored sky. The light cloudburst that had started drizzling over the ships had become a monsoon’s deluge. Whole gallons of water seemed to come falling down on the heads of passenger and sailor alike. Briny liquid, almost black in color, surged over the dipping bowsprit of the vessels. Foul looking and fouler smelling; as if all the life in the ocean had died and begun to rot. The very fabric of the sea felt thrown off kilter, as if the pagan spirits of the water had risen and were making their crotchy moods known to all who dared to sail upon them.
Amongst the crashing waves, which threw water from port to clear across starboard, men worked frantically against the swells. Through bellowed commands and fearfully shouts, the crews aboard the surface ships when about securing everything aboard not welded or bolted down. None of them had ever seen the likes of this squall. Veteran seaman, men who had clocked more time on the water than on dry land in their lives, lost their breakfast over the side, only to have it come flying back at them on the next wave.
Aboard his flagship, Walkure, Admiral Dietrich von Lietz went about his command deck with steadfast if shaking legs, as much from nervousness as the lurching ship beneath him. He could have fooled his staff about the former though, from the cool way he ordered the sounding of general quarters across the flotilla. The sudden blaring of klaxon horns and the shrill pitch of bosun whistles began to play on the Walkure, urging her crew to stand-to and work faster. Slowly, it was joined by similar sounds from her sister-ship Derfflinger, then the transport Riefenstahl. From there it spread out across the remaining 16 ships of the 31st Nordsee Flottille. The cacophony of mechanical alarms nearly drowned out the banshee wail of the storm winds above. Nearly.
Huge waves rolled across the surface, the wind tearing white moonlit spray from their peaks.
...the flat sea stretched in all directions, the afternoon sun scattering diamonds across it's surface. Seagulls wheeled overhead, carried by the cool ocean breeze.
The sea, perfectly calm, was like a peaceful lake, and its soft murmurs were scarcely audible. The waves seemed to sleep. A line of darker blue marked the curve of the horizon.
The water moves softly around my outstretched fingers, caressing cooly, eddying in its wake. I pull my hand out and watch the drips, transparent and not at the same time. They fall as if snatched by gravity to the saline below, each one swiftly haloed by ever-growing rings, distorting the pebbled sea-bed. In the breeze my hand is cold, yet my back is warmed by the early summer sun. Here I could stay all day were it not for the rumbling of my stomach and the aroma of fried fish from near the dock...
"Look at that sea that has shone and quivered there for ever! See the white spume rush into darkness under that great cliff."
Gentle ripples, bonny waves caress sand, light dances, glistening, calm, nature abounds,abundant life, teeming with fish, coral reefs, wonders of the deep, adventure awaits, salty breeze evokes memories, sandcastles, buckets and spades, picnics, ice-cream, sandy toes, cry of gulls, boats with billowed sails glide gracefully slicing waves, rubber dinghies bob in their wake, divers explore, thrilled, exhilarated, in awe, marvel at natures rich and diverse tapestry, fragile ecosystem.
As soon as I got off the plane the vibrant sun beams shone onto the golden sand making it dazzle like millions of jewels. The sea was exactly like I had imagined it to be with white foam at the tip of every wave.
I rapidly took my shoes off at ran onto the silky sand letting it tickle my feet. As I lay down onto the fine grains of sand, I looked up to the flamboyant yet soothing streaks of colour that had filled the canvas of the sky
The Ticonderoga, a ship designed to create, inspire, and charter the unknown, glides across the glimmering waters. The ship creaks and churns unsteadily at first, for the captain is unsure of the direction. The south wind begins to pick up, steering the ship into a sweet oblivion. Wavering winds seem to hum the same eerie lullaby, rocking, cradling, enchanting the crew. It guides The Ticonderoga beyond the blue depths, fashioning rings that ripple out in monotonous, infinite patterns.