Once More To The Sea My Love

By Lucy Brighton

I turn up the radio; it’s playing the latest music, what you prefer to call an ‘infernal racket’. I look over at you, but you don’t comment. The choice of music would usually cause an argument. But not today. 

I think of the previous times we’ve done this trip, every year since we got married and spent our honeymoon in the ‘state-of-the art’ static caravan. You dressed in skimpy bikinis as if we were on the Algarve, stretching your toes towards the horizon.

“You remember our honeymoon?” I ask.

I think I see the ghost of a smile, but you don’t reply.

 Even that year, you complained about my driving. Every journey the same; you telling me I’m driving too fast and playing eye spy. I always win and you say I cheat because I think of more obscure things like b for the buckle on the seatbelt. You tell me it isn’t in the spirit of the game. I think games are meant to be won, I stop short of asking if you want to play.

The motorway has given way to winding roads and barren fields, which are usually a myriad of greens. A different time of year. The gunmetal grey of the sky is stiff and unyielding, unwilling to give an inch to the sun.

The phone rings and Sophie’s name flashes on the screen. I look at you before deciding to let it ring off. You think I should answer; I can feel the disapproval radiating from you.

I thought when Sophie left home and had Gracie that you and I would get back to us, back to making each other the priority. You tell me I’m selfish and that men never grow up. Maybe you’re right. But she’s home more now than when she lived with us. 

‘I’ve just popped in to…’ is her favourite phrase. To check on us, that’s what she’s doing. In fact, she’s doing it more than ever these days. 

“I just picked these up for you from the supermarket,” is another of her stock phrases. It’s usually custard creams. I don’t have the heart to say I can’t have them anymore since the Doctor said I had diabetes. It’s no fun getting old.

I wonder what Greg thinks about her spending more time with her old dad than him? He does something with computers, working from home in their cramped third bedroom.

You hoped there might be a brother or sister for Gracie, but it’s looking less and less likely. Especially with how much time she spends at ours.

“Maybe I should talk to her about it,” I say, but I know you don’t agree. You’re happy she visits as often as she does. You like Gracie running around the table and asking me to chase her. You think it breathes new life into the house. I can’t help but find it all exhausting. You always wanted more kids. I think you’d have had a house full. I never admitted to you a twinge of relief when they told us there’d be no more. You were enough for me from the minute I laid eyes on you at the disco. They don’t meet at places like that anymore, according to Sophie. She met Greg online. Swiped right or whatever she said. Dad, that’s how it’s done these days.

Finally, we arrive at the seafront. I turn off the engine and look out to the water; she is frothy and restless. I rub my temples, the start of a headache gathering behind my eyes.

“You stay there, I’ll go and get the parking ticket,” I say.

The wind is biting at my fingertips as I feed the machine my money. The small seaside town looks in mourning without the throngs of holidaymakers. It’s bereft of its blood, pallid and lifeless. 

“Come on then,” I say, opening the passenger door.

We leave the car and walk towards the small main street, “Shall we see if he’s still here?” Our first stop is always the same place. 

The arcade is singing to itself with only a bored-looking cashier for company. She looks up from her phone briefly and nods at us. 

We find the laughing sailor in his usual spot: The Antique Arcade.

“Jesus Christ, they’ve put a new suit on him.”

I’m reminded of Sophie, her eyes wild with delight and her podgy fingers pressing against the glass, Again, Dad, again.

I push a pound in the slot. 

“Used to be ten pence,” I grumble, sure you’re tutting at me. 

“I’m not tight, just careful,” I say, smiling, pre-empting your response.

The Jolly Sailor roars into life, his maniacal laugh that used to thrill my daughter sounds spiteful and grows louder in the empty arcade. We leave before he’s finished, still slamming his head in abandon, screeching at his own jokes. 

We walk back up the ramp and onto the beach; I hold you tight against the cold. Seagulls have reclaimed the coastline as their own, their cries in competition with the roar of the ocean. 

“Ice cream?” I ask.

It’s cold, but it wouldn’t be a trip to the seaside without it.

“You can wait in the car,” I say, before heading towards the ice cream shop. Its plastic oversized cone has long since shed its glossy skin. I have a thousand dusty memories of the three of us eating ice cream here. I don’t need to ask what you’re having. It’s always the same: always mint chocolate chip.

The shop is empty save for the owner, Terry. He smiles at me with a gummy grin.

“Bit early in the year?”

I look out again towards the rolling water, she’s spitting out salt and froth.

“Blow away the cobwebs,” I reply.

“Aye, I guess.” He says, arching his bushy brows, “What can I get you?”

I relay the order.

“There you go,” Terry hands me the two ice creams, his hand noticeably shakier since the last time I saw him. What a difference sixteen months can make.

I find you back at the car, shielding from the worst of the nipping wind.

“Your usual,” I say, holding the two ice creams tightly.

“Let’s have these in here,” I say, my breath visible in the air. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Perhaps we should have waited ‘til the weather picked up.”

You think the trip is overdue.

We head towards the shoreline, and I take off my shoes and socks and roll up the legs of my trousers. No matter the weather, we always dip our toes in the sea. I take the two steps onto the beach, feeling my toes squelch into the soggy Weetabix-like sand. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the moment. I remember long happy days here when Sophie would cover my feet in sand and then my legs, insisting I was a mermaid. She would dig out boats and declare herself a pirate, all set for far-flung adventures.

And I can picture you young again as clearly as if it was yesterday, heavily pregnant with Sophie, splashing salty water at me. There will be three of us here soon, two against one. You’re laughing as I chase you with splashes of my own.

The soupy water stretches out and bleeds into the skyscape, the edges of the world obscured. The sea is looking rough as I get closer. She rolls with her own heartbeat, reaching out her ethereal fingers toward the drier sand.

 We move together towards the sea’s edge and the icy water reaches out too soon. I gasp.

I drop the cone into the sea and wrap both of my arms tightly around you.

“34 years we’ve been coming here.”

It’s hard to comprehend just how quickly time goes. The memories play on fast forward. Honeymoon, you pregnant, baby, toddler, sulking teenager, us alone again, late night walks hand in hand, too much wine, Sophie pregnant, a son-in-law and Gracie running and splashing and sticking the tiny cocktail stick flags in sand pies.

“I’m not ready,” I say to you. 

“You have to be,” you say, or the wind says, or the gulls say.

I wade out further, clutching you in my arms. The sea is lapping against my shins, sending shivers up my legs like lightning strikes. She has many faces and today she’s glutenous.

I open the urn and let your ashes scatter into the wind and water. I watch the bits of you dancing in the flotsam. She promises to keep you safe among the memories and the shells and the washed-away sandcastles.

First Published Elemental 2026