When you live at the edge of the sea, it's impossible to describe the eyes that emerge from the waves to those who have always lived by rivers.
We know that the crash of the surf during a storm is the choir of the undersea gods. We forage for the bones of cuttlefish in full knowledge that they're cursed from ten thousand years ago. The lighthouses are our earliest warning against the selkie uprising.
At night, when the tide is high and the clouds are low, we sit perched by our windows, listening out for what the gulls are singing.